


The bait of pleasure

by chimosa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Multi, Sexual Violence, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 48,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimosa/pseuds/chimosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What's your deal?  You know, that thing that sets you apart?  That special something that’s gonna draw the people to you.  I mean, you’re pretty and all, but that’s not going to get you very far in this crowd.” Beverly leaned in, taking the edge of Will’s plaid shirt between two fingers.  “And I’m not sure how well the hunting chic vibe will work in here.”</p><p>“Maybe I’ll win them over with my charm and personality,” Will mumbled sardonically into his crystal tumbler.  When he looked up he could see Beverly eyeing him narrowly.  </p><p>  <i>Prostitution AU, inspired by a prompt on Hannibalkink </i></p><p>*complete*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Do not bite at the bait of pleasure, till you know there is no hook beneath it._  
>  -Thomas Jefferson 
> 
>  
> 
> I know, I need to begin another series like I need a hole in the head. But, this prompt grabbed me and I thought I'd have some fun with it. I've included the prompt at the end. As always, feedback keeps the hallucinatory stags at bay.

“This is the panic button,” Will was told on his first day. It was subtly placed behind a painting in a gilded frame, lost among the impeccably decorated room. Will shifted uneasily in his flannel and corduroys, certain that at any moment he would be revealed for the eyesore he was and shown the door. Madam du Maurier slid the painting back into place against the wall with a practiced hand and meticulously leveled the frame.

“A little hard to get to, isn’t it?”

“I don’t expect you’ll be needing it and we don’t want our clients to feel as if we don’t trust them. Still,” she raised an icy eyebrow up as she examined Will from his muddy boots up to his wild hair. “The safety of our employees is important.”

 _Employees,_ Will thought bitterly. That’s a nice euphemism, made it seem like gainful employment to be a whore. 

Which, to judge by the bustle of the room, it was. 

The parlor was as impressive that night in full swing as it had been to Will that morning. The shades of red and gold lent the space an opulent air, elevated the room’s flirting from what Will had assumed would be furtive and tawdry to something lush and grand. Clients milled about, drinks in hand, as men and women perched on low settees laughed and smiled like they were talking to old friends rather than perspective fucks. 

Will watched from a corner of the room as a woman with thick, dark hair and an earnest, pale face leaned in to whisper into a man’s ear. He smiled as her fingers stroked his thigh and nodded eagerly. He drained his scotch with a thrown back hand before letting the woman lead him out of the room.

“You’re Will Graham, aren’t you,” came a woman’s voice and Will startled. Beside him stood an Asian woman with a leather jacket, radiating self-assurance. 

Will looked down, shrugged vaguely. Her eyes were kind but piercing with an intelligence that made him want to curl away before she could piece together all his evils. 

“I heard we had a new kid on the block. I’m Beverly, I’m one of the doms here.”

“Doms?” Will asked.

“Yeah, you know, a dominator. Discipline, bondage, that kind of thing. But please don’t ever call me a dominatrix. Makes me think of stilettos and leather corsets. Lace. Which-” she looked down significantly at her no-nonsense boots and tight black jeans. 

“It’s easier to clean the blood off of denim than lace,” she said confidentially of her outfit and Will nodded vaguely, conceding the point. He had worked homicides once upon a time. He knew a thing or two about blood stains. 

“So what’s your deal?”

“Excuse me?” What exactly _had_ she heard about him?

“You know, that thing that sets you apart? That special something that’s gonna draw the people to you. I mean, you’re pretty and all, but that’s not going to get you very far in this crowd.” Beverly leaned in, taking the edge of Will’s plaid shirt between two fingers. “And I’m not sure how well the hunting chic vibe will work in here.”

“Maybe I’ll win them over with my charm and personality,” Will mumbled sardonically into his crystal tumbler. When he looked up he could see Beverly eyeing him narrowly. 

“You don’t really seem into this.”

“This?” Will asked indicating the convivial scene before him with his glass. “Not really, no.”

“Then why-- Damn. Sorry, one of my regulars just walked in the door. But if you ever need anything...” 

Will nodded as she left. She crossed the room with a confidant swagger toward a mousy looking guy in an ill-fitting suit who seemed exceedingly eager to be led out of the parlor. 

Now that he was alone, Will slumped back against the wall. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate Beverly’s overtures of friendship, he could all-too-well empathize with her desire to be nice to the new guy hiding in the shadows and he had to blink away the impulse to see himself as she did. For a brief moment Will could feel the drape of a leather coat around his shoulders and could imagine a flash of pity as she spotted Will’s nervously drumming fingers and darting eyes from across the room, but that was a place he didn’t want to go. His imagination had already cost him one too many jobs, he couldn’t let it take this last resort away from him, as well. 

The night wore on and he watched as couples disappeared, du Maurier’s _employees_ returning after long stretches of time for the next round of clients. Will had to give them credit, they were a classy bunch. They had not a hair out of place, gave absolutely no indication of what they had been doing the previous hours and with whom. Several times Beverly caught his eye, smiled in his direction, but she didn’t try approaching again.

Actually, no one approached Will that first night. Nor did they approach him the second night. By the third he began to wonder if his misanthropic thoughts were actively keeping clients at bay, if his aversion to attention and other people were surrounding him with some kind of invisible, but tangible, force field. And as nice as it was to be left to his own devices, he couldn’t imagine du Maurier would give him room and board for much longer if this continued. Besides, Will needed money and fast, but he was actively trying not to think about that.

On the fifth night he noticed a man watching him from across the room. He wasn’t exactly a good looking man, nor were his clothes of as fine a quality as the other clients, but Will had to guess that in this case appearances were deceiving. There was no way he would have made it past the front door if he didn’t have money and lots of it. In any case, Will was in no position to judge a person by their clothes as his were just as unimpressive and worn as they had been his first day. 

“You’re not like the others,” the man commented as he approached Will, eyeing him up and down.

“I don’t suppose I am,” Will answered. An awkward pause filled the air. The man shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“Isn’t this the part where you try to get me to pick you out of everyone else in this room?”

Will shrugged, took a sip from his ever-present tumbler of scotch. “Probably. I’m kind of new at this.”

“What’s your name?”

“Does that really matter?”

“No,” the man said, confused. “I don’t guess it does.”

Will sighed. As much as he wanted to be left alone, he knew that sooner or later he’d have to go ahead and sleep with someone. Lots of someones, if he was ever going to make enough for, well, he wasn’t thinking about that now. 

This man was as good a place to start as any. “I’m Will. Do you want to come with me? Find a place a little bit more private?”

As far as first times went, it wasn’t so bad. The man turned out to be a recent lottery winner by the name of George, which explained his unease at being face to face with such conspicuous wealth. 

“This place, the Helmsley, it was on my bucket list ever since I first heard of it when I was a teenager,” George explained as Will unbuttoned his jeans. “We used to laugh about it at school when we were kids- a whore house in the middle of Baltimore- but secretly we all wished we were like those rich guys, you know? I never had much money growing up, so you dream up these things, you know? And you never think they’re possible but then suddenly one day you turn on the TV and the lady’s picking your numbers and everything changes.”

“What’ll it be?” Will asked with only half an ear to the man’s nervous babbling, stroking George to hardness. He sounded like a waiter, and an unenthusiastic one at that, but George doesn’t seem to care if his heavy breathing is anything to go by. 

“Could you, you know,” George said tapping a skittering finger across Will’s mouth. Will obliged, relieved he wouldn’t have to do anything too exotic. He’d given head before, had even been told he was fairly decent at it, and soon lost himself to the familiar tastes and textures.

After George left Will knew he ought to get up, let the housekeepers change the sheets while he went back to the parlor for the next round, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the bed. He rubbed his face and for the first time in weeks he didn’t see blood when he closed his eyes. His jeans chaffed so he chucked them off. His flannel shirt followed.

Finally he relaxed back into the soft pillows as naked as the day he was born. With his arms crossed, his breathing evened out and before long he was in the grips of the first natural sleep he had experienced in weeks. 

The first hint that something was amiss was the faint ripple of air across his cheek. Will could smell grass, newly trimmed and earthy. As his eyes fluttered open he became aware of the squelch of morning-wet mud between his toes. The breeze was caressing his naked skin, and his limbs were heavy with sleep as he forced them to move, instinctively covering himself. 

Clarity came with each drawn breath and soon he could recognize the brick facade of du Maurier’s home and the long driveway that had only hours before been filled with cars. The sky, dark but flirting with the possibility of sunlight, filled with the faintest stirrings of birdsong. Here he stood at the knife’s edge between night and dawn, and Will was relieved he was alone, the only one awake to see his shame. 

Of course, as soon as the thought passed through his mind his eye caught at a flicker of movement from a window. The third floor was dark, the windows reflected street lights, but Will felt a shiver at the certainty that he was being watched. 

***

“Who works the third floor?” Will asked Beverly that evening, following her to the middle of the room. It made him uncomfortable, to feel eyes assessing him, undressing him with a gaze and a knowing smirk. These well-dressed people knew what he was-- knew they could have him with a nod or a crooked finger-- and Will felt more vulnerable here then he had naked and shivering in the early morning air.

His shoulders raised, defensive, but he gritted his teeth against the instinct to retreat.

Beverly blinked at him, surprised to see him away from his customary wall, but she scooted over to make room for Will to sit beside her. Today she wore red leather pants and he imagined they would feel as soft as butter to the touch.

“The third floor?” Beverly tried to catch his gaze but Will looked away quickly. “You weren’t up there, were you?”

Will shook his head and she seemed to relax. 

“That’s Lecter’s floor.”

“Lecter?”

“Yeah, Hannibal Lecter. He’s one of this place’s top earners. I’ve only seen him myself a handful of times for all the months I’ve been working here.”

“I didn’t realize there was such a clearly delineated hierarchy here,” Will observed.

“There’s not,” Beverly shrugged. “Not really. All of us that work down here, we all keep an eye out for each other. Like a family. Anyone that comes in with a diva complex or an attitude problem doesn’t last long. At the end of the day, this is a business and Madam du Maurier doesn’t suffer fools or financial burdens gladly. But Lecter...”

“What about him?”

“He’s different.”


	2. Chapter 2

Another successful night-- he’d managed to force his way through three clients before curling up into a ball of anger and disgust -- led to yet another pre-dawn bout of sleep walking. 

At least he wasn’t naked this time. 

Will had learned his lesson and even though it meant night shirts soaked in sweat and sending his clothes off to housekeeping with embarrassing frequency, he now took care to fall asleep clothed. Bad enough his clients saw so much of him, he didn’t need to give the entire neighborhood a show.

The air was cool, each rustle of wind brought with it the faintest curl of autumn, and Will hoped he got this new habit of his under control before the cold started in earnest. Winter in Baltimore was a far cry from the humid and sticky Decembers spent in Louisiana and frostbite wasn’t an appealing thought. Will really didn’t want get to the point where he needed to sleep in his snow boots _just in case_.

Folding his arms across his chest, Will turned to start back up to the house when he saw it-- a flash of movement at a third floor window. 

“Hannibal Lecter, I presume,” Will muttered before he thought better of it. If anyone _was_ watching him, he could only imagine what he looked like: talking to himself while standing outdoors in his underwear. Not the best way to prove his mental stability. And he had to assume du Maurier knew about that bit of Will Graham trivia, seeing as Jack Crawford was the one to suggest this place to begin with. 

Too unstable for the FBI. Too unstable to remain a police detective. Now if he was too unstable to fuck for money, then there would be new and exciting depths of his self-loathing for him to plumb. 

He scanned the window once more, but didn’t see any signs of activity. There was nothing-- aside from a vague feeling of certainty-- to prove that anyone was peering out from the window’s darkness. For all that Beverly had assured him that Lecter kept to himself, Will was skeptical that anyone could work an entire floor of the brothel and remain little more than a vague specter. But it was true, he never saw the mysterious hustler of the third floor and as he settled into his new life, Will found himself caring less and less about Hannibal Lecter.

The days went on and he began to lose himself to the familiar patterns of quiet days and sex-fueled nights. The Helmsley took on an aura of familiarity as he learned the names of the other sex workers and the faces of most of their regular clients. He nodded politely to the housekeepers as they scurried about to maintain du Maurier’s exacting standards of cleanliness, and he came to recognize the gaping delivery boys trying to peek beyond the kitchen as food and toiletries were brought to the house twice a week. Each week Will presented himself to the Helmsley’s private doctor for STI testing and he stopped blushing whenever the professional fingers checked him for anal tears.

Will was getting used to being fucked regularly. He didn’t particularly enjoy it, but aside from that first time-- on all fours gritting his teeth against the pain of being entered-- there hadn’t been anything exotic asked of him. The men that gravitated to him weren’t imaginative, they mostly just wanted to be stroked and sucked and the ones that fucked him were fine with the condoms and lube Will extracted from the dresser drawer. Not that they should be surprised, seeing as there was a list of rules they had to sign in agreement before they could make it passed the vestibule and the looming bouncers that worked there. Still, Will had expected to encounter at least one guy that thought he could do as he pleased, but thus far he hadn’t had any issues. 

It was physically exhausting work, but once the skin of his knees hardened against carpet burn and his jaw learned to stop aching when a blow job went on for too long, Will was able to start to make some decent money. He wasn’t as popular as some of the others, and he hadn’t managed to acquire any regular clients, but that didn’t bother him at all. Regulars meant actually talking beyond the first introduction and Will wasn’t the best conversationalist.

One night he passed Beverly in the hallway on his way back to the parlor from working a client. Her eyes flicked over his body, taking in his denim button down shirt and khaki pants, before settling on his face.

“How are you doing?” The question was laden with meaning, noticeable enough that it stopped Will in his tracks.

“Fine,” he allowed before smiling self-deprecatingly. “I guess there’s more of a market for hunter chic than you figured.”

“I guess so,” she said. 

Beverly laid a hand on Will’s shoulder and it was proof positive he’d been spending his nights suffering the touches of strangers that he didn’t automatically shrug off the gesture of familiarity. “You look better than you did your first week. More settled. I really figured you were going to be one of those that couldn’t hack the work, but you seem to be adjusting pretty well.”

“I’m a paragon of adaptation.”

“So it would seem,” the hand on his shoulder squeezed companionably before slapping his back with a practiced swat. “Come on, those clients aren’t going to fuck themselves.”

In spite of himself, Will snorted a laugh, following Beverly as she sauntered into the opulent parlor. Once he had once been dazzled by the rich gold furnishings and heavy scarlet draperies, but now all he could see was where the carpet was abraded from so many shoes walking across it and the places where the curtains pilled. They were small things, hardly noticeable, but after spending as much time here as he had, each imperfection became their own kind of landmark. Like reference points etched out into the bark of a tree, he followed the signs of wear back to his customary wall and settled into it. 

A man by the bar glanced at Will and he forced himself to still underneath the gaze. As much as he hated the attention, he had learned by now the little ways to encourage a perspective client along.

Tipping his head back invitingly, Will met the scrutiny with a jutting pelvis and lazy, half closed eyes. Poses of submission, but this man with his blue suit and fastidiously fastened tie was clearly used to being in charge. A CEO, maybe. And suddenly Will could too-clearly see this man in an office of steel and glass, barking orders over the phone with a terrifying and barely tethered rage. Will blinked, shook the image out of his head just as the man approached with a smile. 

“Hey there.” There was nothing of the red-faced tyrant in the greeting, just a good looking man, early forties, with a strong jaw line and friendly brown eyes.

“Hey,” Will made a conscious effort to relax his stance, which had become tense and wary as the man leaned close, hand braced on the wall by Will’s head. The other man was taller than Will, shoulders broad as if he exercised regularly. 

“I’m Will,” he offered because he’d learned they generally liked to know his name even if they never came back to him for more. 

“Hello Will,” the man said, voice lilting, as he mocked the social niceties. “Do you like bourbon, Will?”

Will nodded and found a glass pressed to his lips, the sticky- sweet alcohol sharp in his nostrils. As the glass tipped upward, Will swallowed obediently, forcing himself to focus as near the man’s eyes as he could bring himself to look. The drink burned a path as he drank, settling warm in his chest. 

“Good boy,” the man murmured, swiping his thumb at Will’s lips where a trickle of bourbon was falling. He removed Will’s glasses then leaned down, laving at Will’s mouth until he opened to allow a dominating tongue to chase away the taste of the sweet whiskey. Will could feel the wall at his back as he was crowded against it. For a brief moment he tried to fight against the invasion, animal instinct flaring as he started to push at the man’s shoulder with the flat of his hand but at the last moment he remembered to accept the attention. This was what he was getting paid for, after all, and it had been a slow night. Will couldn’t afford to reject this man, no matter how his over active imagination felt. Will’s hands, poised for fending off the attack, curled so that he was gripping at the fine suit’s jacket when the man broke away.

“You’ll do nicely,” the man said, replacing Will’s glasses so that they perched on the bridge of his nose. 

“What should I call you,” Will asked as he led the man out of the bright salon and down the dark hallway.

“Don’t worry about it,” the man said as he followed Will through the threshold to Will’s bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the warnings have changed. This section includes sexual violence and attempted rape

“Sit on the bed,” Will was told as soon as the door was closed. He hesitated where he stood and the man turned with an understanding smile.

“You don’t like being told what to do, do you?”

Will shrugged, eyes dancing around the room, taking in the fresh linens on the bed, the firmly closed curtains, the barren table surfaces and the impersonal walls-- bare save the painting in its golden frame. “I’m getting used to it.”

The man crossed to the window, parted the curtain to look out into the night. “Do these windows open?”

“Probably,” Will answered vaguely, as he sat on the bed, watching as the man found a latch and slid the window open. Cool air poured in, noticeably lowering the room’s temperature. Will’s skin prickled and he fought a shiver. If this man wanted to keep Will off center and guessing, then it was working. Will was used to getting a sense right away of what would be asked of him but so far he was drawing a blank.

“That’s better,” the man said, breathing deep. “Circulating air can carry germs. Bacteria.”

His tone was firm, like he was used to being believed unquestioningly, but Will frowned. “It’s not exactly fresh air. We’re in the middle of Baltimore-- there’s plenty of air pollution. I can’t imagine it’s any better to breathe than circulating air.”

The man became eerily still but when he turned the solicitous smile was firmly in place. “You’re sitting on the bed. Good. Take your shirt off and lay back.”

Will did what he was told, jaw clenched against the cold and the caustic words that threatened to spill from his mouth. If this guy wanted to go on a power trip, Will could grin and bear it. After all, he’d be gone in an hour or so. Will could survive an hour of this.

“I brought something to play with, I hope you don’t mind.” Will tilted his head back and he could see the man taking a pair of handcuffs from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. From here they looked heavy, the faint light from outside the window glinted off the metal, and Will could see they were as genuine as any he had used in his time in law enforcement. 

Will felt the first prickling of unease blossom across the back of his neck. “You’re not supposed to bring in your own equipment, it’s house policy. If you want something specific to play with I can go get one of our-”

The man sat on the bed and pressed a hand to Will’s chest as he started to rise, stilling him. “I didn’t realize that. It’s my first time here.”

“The rules should have been given to you downstairs-”

“I wasn’t paying that much attention,” he admitted as his hand stroked Will’s flank, his voice reasonable. “Look, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.”

“We autoclave all our-”

“How about this one time we use mine and then when I visit you next time you can show me what all you have here.” He leaned in, brushing his lips across Will’s cheek. Despite himself, Will’s eyes fluttered closed. He could feel the man’s hands encircling his wrists, bringing them together above his head near the bars of the headboard. “I’ve had a really bad day and thinking about coming here was the only thing that got me through it.”

The cold bite of metal encircled his wrists and Will tensed, poised to fight.

“Please,” the man said, his mouth murmuring the words onto Will’s lips. “Just give it a try. If you don’t like them just say something and I’ll take them off, no questions asked.” 

Will scrutinized the man’s face, darting quick glances to his eyes, but all he could see was sincerity in the dark brown depths. Closing his eyes, Will licked his lips nervously. The man ran a hand through Will’s hair, soothing, until Will capitulated with a nod.

“Good boy,” the man said as the handcuffs clicked closed, the sound so much louder than Will could remember from his time as a cop, now that he was on the other end of them. He tested the cuffs, pulled at where they twined with the headboard but Will was effectively restrained. 

“Not so bad, right?” The man pulled away to remove his clothes, draping them across the nightstand so that they lay flat, unwrinkled. As Will waited he could feel his tension start to ebb away. It was just sex, after all, even if the accessories were new to him. 

When the man was finally naked he straddled Will’s chest, kneeling so that his cock was inches from Will’s mouth. 

“You don’t need these,” he said, removing Will’s glasses and tossing them to the nightstand. Will didn’t really need them to see, they were more of a habit, a way to separate himself from his environment then anything. In the dark he watched as the man’s hand came down to cup his chin. “Open.”

Will obeyed, and his mouth was filled. He flicked his tongue around the cock in his mouth and received a pleased grunt in return. Working the shaft with lips and tongue, Will bobbed his head as best he could, back and forth, but the angle wasn’t the best and soon the muscles in his neck began to ache. 

“Here, just stay still,” the man said, breathless. Will complied and the man began to fuck his mouth in earnest. It was rough and Will struggled to breath through his nose, tears streaming down his cheeks as he fought to remain calm even though his instincts were screaming at him, insisting he was choking. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” the man crooned, grasping at Will’s hair and using the curls to pull Will’s head closer, to take him down deeper.

_It’ll be over soon,_ Will told himself, fighting not to gag around the cock that was being shoved into his throat. The man was making sharp groans, his hips stuttering, and Will could see an end in sight. Suddenly the man was pulling away and Will could feel his heart sink as his pants were pawed at until the fasteners gave way.

“Lube and condoms are in the drawer,” Will said, his voice husky and unrecognizable. He cleared his throat but it didn’t help alleviate the raw burning he felt.

“That’s okay,” the man said as he drew Will’s knees apart and upwards. 

“No,” Will said. “No, it’s really not. If you want to fuck me you need to use a condom.”

The man ignored him, settling into place between Will’s thighs. Will jerked his legs away, kicking for all he was worth but he didn’t have any leverage and his hands weren’t coming free no matter how much he twisted his wrists in their metal confines. 

“Let me go,” Will demanded, and he could feel the sharp pain as his skin ripped against the handcuffs. He raised his voice to a yell. “Let me-”

The blow to the side of his head stole his voice away, and the three that followed it sent a blackness across his vision but he knew he had to fight, he couldn’t let himself pass out now. 

“Calm down. I’ll pay extra if that’s what your worried about,” the man sounded mildly irritated, like he had gotten the wrong order in a restaurant and it was the ordinariness of his voice that made Will fight harder. Three more blows and his ears were ringing, blood choked the back of his throat and trickled from the corner of his mouth. Will shook his head, fought for consciousness as his legs were lifted and-- Christ-- he could feel the heat of the man’s erection against his inner thigh. 

His heart was beating in terror against his chest, and Will’s aching teeth ground down as he reached with one hand to his own thumb and with a wrench dislocated the digit. The pain of it was distant, God bless adrenaline, and he could now work one hand free. The man reared back, poised to strike again but this time Will was ready for him. Will’s elbow met his face with a satisfying crack and now Will could tug his other hand until the handcuff came free from the headboard. 

Diving off the bed, Will rolled until he could stand, racing for the gilded frame and he got as far as moving the picture to the side before he was grabbed from behind. An arm crossed his chest while the other pushed into his throat and he was restrained in a choke hold until the room swayed. He spluttered, fought to breath, but couldn’t. 

Finally, in one last desperate move Will grabbed the arm across his throat and pulled down with all his strength until there was just enough room he could pivot away. From there it was muscle memory, hours spent learning self defense that returned in a heady rush as he kneed the man in the groin. As the man slumped, Will’s elbow came up, catching the man’s chin and his head snapped back with the force of it. Blindly Will shoved the man away and watched as he toppled back.

Will blinked, his aching head couldn’t quite comprehend it as he watched the man fell through the wall-- 

No.

Those were curtains.

That wasn’t a wall, it was a window, and Will couldn’t help but be drawn to it. Looking down he could see the man sprawled, naked against the well-kept lawn. He blinked up, his mouth opened and blood oozed from his lips. Will sagged against the window frame, his eyes never leaving the man.

He was still there when the door to his room burst open and suddenly there were people. Talking, but he couldn’t hear them past the roar in his ears. Hands pressed around him and when he blinked he was wearing pants, a blanket around his shoulders. 

He blinked again and he was outside, though he couldn’t remember walking down the stairs or out the front door. There was an ambulance and a pen light shining in his eyes that he blinked against, tried to twist away from. 

“Easy, Mr. Graham. Easy.” A man with a uniform and latex gloves was saying, voice pitched low and friendly. “We’re just going to take you to the E.R., get your hand looked at. Take an M.R.I., make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

Will shook his head at that, fought the rolling nausea. “I don’t want anyone inside my head.”

“Sure, okay,” the man was saying, leading Will to the bright orange bed inside the ambulance. 

Will glanced back, and beyond the flashing lights and the half-dressed assemblage of sex workers and their wide eyed clients he could see the open window of his room and just above that, the third floor window alight with amber. He saw a man standing, observing, from it- light hair, sharp cheekbones, aristocratic posture- and it was the last thing Will saw before the ambulance doors closed.


	4. Chapter 4

The clack of high heels on the linoleum floor was the only thing that gave warning before Bedelia du Maurier’s well-manicured hand pushed aside the curtain partition encircling Will’s hospital bed. 

“It seems you have powerful friends, Mr. Graham,” she said, her voice as even and unreadable as ever. The industrial-grade lighting caught in her well-coifed hair, turning it an even more striking ash blonde. Her black dress was tight and perfectly tailored to give her the appearance of being both devastatingly professional and undeniably sensual. After two days spent seeing nothing but hostile, bleary eyed nurses and too-busy doctors, du Maurier was a jarring change. Will instinctively found himself sitting up even straighter, his bandaged hand cradled in his lap.

“Jack Crawford--” Will started, his face ached when he spoke, but he had only himself to blame. 

After the surgery on his thumb the nurses insisted he continue with the pain medication but he staunchly refused every one of their attempts. He was on edge, convinced that the next person he would see outside of hospital personnel would be a police officer, come to arrest him for assault. He wanted his faculties about him when that happened. Will never would have predicted that instead it would be du Maurier, her arms crossed consideringly, that would come instead.

“Jack Crawford may have been the reason I gave you a job to begin with but Hannibal Lecter is the reason I’m letting you keep it.”

Will blinked, confused. He’d never met Hannibal Lecter, had only caught a glimpse of the man days before. And even then, he had no reason to believe that was who he had seen, peering from the window. No reason except for his gut telling him so. 

“Why would he...” Will’s voice trailed off. Between the pain of his injuries and the unexpectedness of du Maurier’s words, Will couldn’t even piece together enough of a thought to finish his sentence.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself. I stopped trying to understand why Hannibal does the things he does long ago. I’ve found it leads to a more harmonious working relationship.” She offered Will a leather satchel and without thinking he took it with his uninjured hand. 

“Though,” she added, cocking her head to the side as she watched him. “If you think you can glean any understanding from him I invite you to try.”

Inside the bag Will found his own clothing, neatly folded. 

“You’re taking me back to the Helmsley?”

“Provided that’s where you wish to go.”

“I can’t imagine keeping me on will be good for business.”

“I think you’ll find that, like bruises, memories fade. My employees know better than to speak out of turn about another one of my own, so you needn’t worry on that front. At any rate, your doctors have told me they estimate your recovery from surgery will take three to six weeks, and by then I’m sure your face will have sufficiently healed. The clients should be none the wiser.”

“You’ve spoken to my doctors? So much for doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Money does tend to assuage many a guilty conscience. Speaking of which, Mr. Harlan has elected not to press charges.”

Harlan. Will realized with a jolt he’d never even gotten the name of the man that had done this to him, had in fact been calling him “the man” this entire time. Now that his attacker had a name, it was as if an enormous weight was lifted. The man was no longer a looming threat, now he was just _a_ man. A terrible man, of course, but Will had seen what men even more terrible than Harlan were capable of.

He’d seen the oozing and fetid horrors of what more terrible men than Harlan could leave behind.

“Why wouldn’t he press charges? It’s his word against mine, and I don’t think there is a jury in this country that would believe his story over the word of a whore.”

Bedelia’s lips flattened, as if she found his last word distasteful. “I believe you know the adage _don’t look a gift horse in the mouth_. Now, get dressed. You are, I am assuming, coming back with me to the Helmsley.”

Will gingerly lifted himself off the bed, mindful of the gap at the back of his cheap hospital gown. 

“Where else have I got to go?”

The ride from the hospital was a quiet one, and Will was grateful to sink back into the soft leather seat of the Lincoln Town Car, his eyes closed as the world sped by. By his side du Maurier worked silently, the only proof she was even there was the occasional rustle of papers. Will must have dozed off because when he opened his eyes it was to see the driver holding the car door open for him, du Maurier was already clacking up the steps to the front door. 

Half-rolling out of the car, Will followed her through the front door and into the vestibule where there was a flurry of activity. Will stopped short, blinking at the small crew of construction workers assembling together metal, wires poking out at odd ends. 

“Metal detectors,” du Maurier explained at his questioning look. “I decided there were some gaps in our security that needed to be addressed.”

She caught Will’s shoulder and he startled. It was the first time she had ever touched him and her face was earnest, her eyebrows drawn together. “I hope you understand that I take what happened to you very seriously.”

He licked his lips, nervous to be the sole focus of her attention. Madam du Maurier had an edge to her that made Will somewhat wary and this close up her regard was palpable. The faint scent of her gardenia perfume wafted over him and he nodded his comprehension. 

She released him and it was suddenly easier to breathe, though the smell of flowers followed Will as he drew away. 

“I do hope you’ll thank Hannibal for his intercession in the matter of Mr. Harlan. Although I don’t fully understand why he took it upon himself to get involved, he really was instrumental in smoothing everything over with the authorities.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin to thank him, seeing as I don’t even know what he looks like or how to find him.”

Madam du Maurier smiled but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “There is a private entrance to his rooms from the other side of the house. That is for his clients, however. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you were to use his personal staircase. It’s behind the door next to the kitchen.” 

She checked the dainty gold watch looped around her thin wrist.

“If you go now you may even get breakfast out of him.”

He found the door just where she said it would be, which was a surprise as he’d never noticed it before. The stairs were dark and he used his good hand to feel the wall as he ascended them gingerly. To return from the hospital only to break his neck falling down stairs not ten minutes later would be exactly the sort of thing he’d expect to happen to him. As he rounded the second flight the smell of roasting garlic and some kind of meat overwhelmed him. His stomach cramped painfully and he was suddenly reminded it had been days since he had had an actual meal. 

He reached the top of the stairs and unexpectedly he was in an incredibly spacious kitchen. A far cry from the rococo and filigreed decor of the floors below, this room was unapologetically modern with stainless steel counters and a vast array of culinary equipment. Music was playing, something classical with violins and an impassioned soprano, while on the stove eggs crackled, cooking merrily. From where he stood, Will could see the muscle of a broad, strong back working beneath a purple dress shirt. 

Will cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed when it felt so much like an intrusion. 

“Mr. Lecter?”

Hannibal Lecter stilled, his back straightening at the sound of his name. He reached for a dishcloth and wiped his hands before reaching for a button on the remote control beside him. The music cut off, abruptly throwing the room into silence. His movements were slow, unhurried, and Will shifted from foot to foot as he waited for the other man to turn and acknowledge him.

When he did Will could see the same sharp cheekbones and light hair that he remembered peering out the window at him the night of the attack. 

“Ah, Mr. Graham, I presume,” Lecter said and Will wasn’t expecting the lilt in the words. Something European, curling around the edges of his words, giving them a distinctly blue-blooded flavor. “I must apologize, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Will shook the hand that was offered and it was broad, strong, with the barest rasp of calluses along the palm. 

“No, I’m sorry. I’m the one that barged in on you, but du Maurier said you wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Lecter said, his hair falling gently across his forehead. He had an apron tucked neatly around his waist and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, and Will had the impression he was witnessing a more casual side of the mysterious Hannibal Lecter, one that few were privy to. “Please, come in. Would you like some coffee?”

Will stepped further into the kitchen, inspecting the vast assortment of knives suspended on a metallic strip over one of the generous counters. 

“I find that having the proper tools makes all the difference when preparing a meal. It turns what would ordinarily be a tedious chore into a pleasure. Here.”

When Will turned he saw a mug of coffee in Lecter’s hand. He took the proffered beverage, shaking his head mutely when Lecter inquired whether he wanted milk or sugar for it. The mug was warm in his hands, pleasantly so, and he leaned his hip back until he could prop himself on a counter. He watched as Lecter wandered to the stove, to give the cooking eggs his attention. 

“What is that you’re making over there,” Will indicated the forgotten slab of meat on the island in the center of the kitchen. 

“I’m preparing a flank for dinner tonight.”

“A little early, isn’t it? You haven’t even had breakfast.”

That teased a small smile of acknowledgment from Lecter, and Will found his eyes inexorably drawn to the man’s pink lips. There was something tantalizing about the long bow of his upper lip and Will had the sudden desire to know what it would be like to bite down right there when his mouth curved. 

He blinked swiftly, shocked at himself for the thought, and he covered his discomfort by sipping at his coffee. Will’s sex drive had never been particularly strong and it had become even less so since sex had become his only real occupation. To feel that shock of desire, for another sex worker of all people, was as startling as it was unwanted. 

“I like to take my time when I put together a dinner,” and it took a moment for Will to remember what it was they had been talking about. A flank. Dinner. That’s right. “And I find my clients appreciate the extra attention to detail.”

“You make your clients dinner?” Will couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. He could barely stand fucking his, and that only took an hour at most, ten minutes if he was lucky. He couldn’t imagine sitting down with them, relishing their company.

“Not all of them,” Lecter admit. “But the ones I am fond of, yes. I tend to take a rather old fashioned view of the companionship I provide: conversation, nourishment.”

“Sex,” Will added, bluntly.

“Sometimes, yes, but not always. I find that most people that seek out those of our ilk tend to be very lonely. I can provide a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen to them.”

_A mouth to fuck,_ Will thought, bitterly.

“That is why I find what happened to you to be such a terrible thing. There is something quite beautiful in what we provide, what we are willing to give of ourselves to another person, in many cases a stranger.”

Suddenly Will was angry. His face hurt from the pummeling it had taken and his hand ached from where surgeons had had to reattach the tendons of his thumb. He was tired from the two days he spent eyeing the hospital’s doorway with trepidation, knowing that at any moment he would be hauled off to jail. He could feel his rising anger in the heat that spilled across his neck and the heavy sinking of his stomach. It was in the words that spit from his lips, in their acidic bite. 

“I don’t know what _you_ do, Mr. Lecter, but I just fuck them. There’s nothing beautiful in it. It’s base and it’s ugly, and there’s no redeeming value to any of it. I have sex and I get paid and that’s all it is.” 

“You are angry-” Will snorted. _Astute observation._ “-- I didn’t mean to offend you. After what you have been through, I only wished to convey my sincerest sympathies. Let me make it up to you. Please, stay for breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” Will said and it was true. Now that the anger had swept away he was left standing on the precipice of utter exhaustion. All he wanted was to collapse into bed and sleep.

“Of course,” Hannibal said and he sounded disappointed. “Then instead let me offer an alternative. Join me for dinner, later this week.”

“I don’t know about you, but evenings are kind of busy for me,” Will said but he sounded less snide than he intended. His weariness made the words small, despondent, and he felt exposed for it. 

“Forgive my indelicacy,” Lecter said gently and Will had the sudden impression that if he was anyone else Lecter would have touched him then. “But I do not believe your evenings will be occupied for the next few weeks, at least. Not until your bruises have had the opportunity to heal.”

Will closed his eyes, his silence acknowledging the truth of Lecter’s words.

“I cannot undo what Mr. Harlan has done to you, but I do know my way around a kitchen. Please, let me prepare a special meal for you, to replace the bad memories with something else. I’m expecting a cut of meat later this week that I think you will find to your taste.”

Will licked his dry lips and opened his eyes. Lecter had moved while he spoke and was now standing close enough that Will could breathe him in: the exotic spice of his cologne and the smoke of prepared food. 

“I guess it would be rude of me to refuse.”


	5. Chapter 5

Will’s room doesn’t look any different, for all that happened there. Housekeeping had taken care of the mess, so that the furniture was straightened and the linens were clean, neatly tucked. Will parted the curtains, peered out to the green lawn, but there was no sign of the ground having been disturbed. It was only when he closed his eyes that Will could see the figure of Harlan, laying akimbo, his dark eyes glaring up at him in accusation. As Will watched the figure shifted, changed, until it was the slumped form of another man, one with blood oozing from the bullet holes in his chest. 

_See?_

“You’re back,” and Will whirled around, eyes wild, breath coming fast, but it was only Beverly. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms tucked casually across her chest. When she got a good look at Will her expression fell. “Oh shit, look at your face.”

“I actually haven’t looked in a mirror yet,” Will admitted, his wry smile pulled the skin around his lips taunt and brought with it an aching twinge. 

“Well take my advice. Don’t. For as long as you can avoid it at least.” Beverly hesitated at the door’s threshold. “Mind if I join you?”

Will waved her in and she closed the door as she stepped inside. “So you know, I’m dying to ask.”

“What happened?”

“As long as you don’t mind talking about it.”

Will shrugged vaguely as he inspected the bed, smoothing a hand over the cool silk of a pillow. “There’s not much to say; I got roughed up by a client, I fought back.”

“He went out the window,” Beverly finished with a satisfied smile, sitting on his bed next to him. “Defenestration. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

The fingers of Will’s uninjured hand traced the bars of the headboard until he found the roughened spot where handcuffs had rubbed at the wood, just out of sight. “I saw the metal detectors downstairs.”

“Yeah, there are some new rules,” she shrugged, unconcerned. “The panic buttons are going to be more accessible. Clients have to go through the metal detectors, get a pat down.”

“They can’t be happy about that.”

“Some of the other workers are annoyed, they think it’ll scare the clients away. I figure a pat down is like free foreplay. Gets them nice and ready for me.” She grinned and Will could see all her teeth glinting, bright and hungry. “Honestly, I feel better knowing there are more safety procedures in place. What happened to you could have happened to any of us. That guy came with the intention of causing pain, it didn’t matter who he beat on. At least you were able to defend yourself. Someone else might not have been so lucky.”

“Lucky,” Will agreed darkly. They fell into a thoughtful silence.

“So,” Beverly said finally. “Are you going to stick around, even after everything that happened?”

“Looks like it. I’m supposed to wait until my bruises go away.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Until then I guess I’m on du Maurier’s idea of workman’s comp. Who would have thought a whorehouse would provide better health benefits than actual gainful employment could.”

“God bless America,” Beverly cracked and Will quirked a smile at her quip. “Well, I ought to head down to breakfast. I’m sure you’re tired and I only meant to check in on you. Do you want me to bring anything up for you to eat?”

Will knew he should have something but the hunger he felt earlier at Lecter’s was all but vanished, his stomach felt twisted and uneasy. 

“I’m fine.” He hesitated to say anything more, but Beverly had been the closest thing to a friend that he had found in this place. More of a friend than he had expected to find, really. “I met Lecter.”

“You did?”

Will nodded. “Apparently he’s the reason I’m not in jail right now.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s got all kinds of influential people on his client list. I’m sure there’s a lot of favors he could ask for, with his clout.”

“I don’t see how,” WIll grumbled. “He told me he doesn’t sleep with his clients, at least not all of the time. Strange he can be such a high earner when he hardly fucks anyone.”

“No? Well whatever he’s doing it’s working for him.”

Will toyed with the bandage on his wrist, teasing the cloth until the edges started unraveling. “He says he makes them dinner, talks to them.” 

“I don’t see anything wrong with that; this job is whatever you make of it. Take me for example: I like sex. Honestly, I really do enjoy it, but I have no interest in being some subservient feminine ideal. So I bill myself as a dom, I get to hold a whip, I get to wear the pants, and I get to stay in control of every situation I put myself in. The feminist in me doesn’t feel compromised and I get to live rent free, so for me, this is a no-lose type of situation. Lecter likes to nurture his clients, feed them, whatever, good for him. He’s doing what he likes to do. Others here have found whatever works for them, whatever lets them get through the night, and either they like what they do or they leave the life as soon as they can. And then there’s you.”

“Me?”

“You don’t like the work. You can barely stand to be touched. Yet here you are, working in a brothel, same as the rest of us.”

“The money-”

“Yeah, the money’s good, but it’s not the only way to make money. You’re obviously not afraid of working hard, so I’ve got to ask myself what it is you’re getting out of it.” She tilted her head as she examined him. “You want to know what I think?”

“I’m afraid to know what you think,” Will admitted, which made her smile softly. Her face was gentle, taking the sting out of her words.

“I think this is penance for you. I think there’s something that you’ve done, or maybe something you didn’t do, that makes you think you deserve the way you’re treated. Makes you feel men are justified in treating you like something disposable.” 

It was unnerving how astute her words were and Will felt cold at being so adeptly read. 

“Whatever it was that happened, it can’t have been as bad as you think.” 

Will didn’t answer her. 

 

***

Staring down at the assortment of clothes laid on his bed, Will was dismayed to realize there was a decided lack of style among his closet’s meager offerings. Anything he had associated with his time as a detective he had done away with in a fit of self-disgust-- thrown away along with so many of his things one night when too much whiskey and his too-furtive imagination had gotten the better of him. While his suits hadn’t exactly been high couture at least they would have been more appropriate for dining with Hannibal Lecter than flannel. 

Even after meeting him just the once, Will could tell Lecter was used to finer things than he. And somehow he didn’t think his _hunter chic_ would impress. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He chose his least offensive outfit-- a blue plaid shirt and tight jeans-- and started for the barely-noticeable staircase before he changed his mind. He made a quick detour past the unmanned, well-stocked bar and grabbed at a bottle of wine when no one was looking. Then, he slipped past the usual pre-opening bustle as things were cleaned and last minute preparations were made, finally making it to the unremarkable door. The dark staircase was a cool reservoir of stillness that he savored briefly. Now that he knew to listen for it, Will could hear the distant strains of music drifting down from somewhere above.

To enter into Lecter’s kitchen was to be swept once more into another place altogether and Will wondered briefly if he would ever stop being so surprised at the conversion between the brothel and this world of midcentury modernist order. 

“Mr. Graham,” he heard his name said in greeting and there was his host for the evening, dressed in an impossible suit with a subtle plaid pattern and Will was amused to find them a matched set. 

“I brought you this,” Will said, awkwardly handing Lecter the wine bottle he had procured. He didn’t know much about wine, but he had to assume if it was something they served their clientele it had to be worth something. 

Lecter took the bottle with an amused quirk to his lips. 

“It may or may not be ill-gotten gains,” he admitted.

“Yes, I recognize the label. I believe I helped choose the vintage myself.”

Of course he did. “Well, then you already know you like it.”

“Indeed,” Lecter said, his hand sweeping sideways in welcome. The gesture was almost theatrical but it suited his surroundings. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to join me for dinner.”

Will was handed a glass of red wine and ushered into a dining room. He was relieved when Lecter excused himself to give their dinner some last-minute attention and he was left to acclimatize to this new space in peace. Rows of plants adorned one wall, giving the room a shock of verdant life. Closer inspection revealed them to be an impressive assortment of herbs, which would make sense for a man that prided himself on his culinary prowess. Far from being adroit at cooking, Will couldn’t begin to guess what all was contained in there, though even he was able to recognize the basil plant and a small bush of rosemary. 

Pinching one of the rosemary’s hard little nubs between his fingernails released the plant’s earthy scent and with it came memories of his childhood neighbor and Will’s brief, but intense, fascination with her garden one summer. It was a happy memory that had been all-but forgotten, and Will felt himself start to smile as he picked up his glass and sipped at the full-bodied wine thoughtfully. When he turned, however, he found his burgeoning smile fade away. 

He couldn’t help but be drawn closer to the mantle to inspect the painting displayed there with obvious pride. In it a woman lay, splayed open and exposed, as a swan inspected between her legs. It was an exquisite rendering, made all the more so for the faint undercurrent of erotic violation that was nestled between the brushstrokes. 

“Leda and the swan,” Lecter said from behind Will and he startled, turned to see the other man standing impossibly close to him. Unconsciously, Will took a ragged step backward, away from Lecter as a hand came up as if to ward him away. Immediately Lecter looked contrite.

“I’m so sorry, it was thoughtless of me to sneak up behind you like that, after what you’ve been through.”

His hands were up in supplication and Will forced himself to breathe past the too-fast beating of his heart, embarrassed by his reaction. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

When he took a sip of wine he was angry to see his hand trembled slightly and he knew from the way Lecter politely averted his eyes that the other man had seen it too. Will cleared his throat, determined to return to a semblance of normalcy. 

“The painting-” he started.

“Was a gift,” Lecter said. “A client of mine gave it to me many years ago.”

“It’s a little risqué for a dining room, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps. Then again, if I am entertaining a guest for dinner, there is always the possibility that the painting would be considered positively modest, depending on how the evening went. I will admit, it has served as inspiration on more than one occasion. Now, if you would like to take a seat, I came to tell you that dinner is ready to be served.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was easy to see, as Lecter presented meticulously crafted dish after meticulously crafted dish, how he had made a name for himself as a companion amongst the powerful and fashionable set. If this was what he prepared for Will, someone he had no reason to try to impress, he couldn’t imagine what Lecter might create when he really set his mind to excite. 

“This is really good,” Will said, strangely unembarrassed by his enthusiasm. 

“I was inspired,” Lecter admitted, presenting the last platter with a flourish of his hands. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Will shook his head as Lecter served him, filling his plate with thick cuts of meat and golden globes of potatoes, and a few other things Will couldn’t possibly begin to identify. Each dish was prepared with a mind to visual impact, and between that and the aromas rising from his plate this promised to be a full sensory meal. When Will bit into a potato, he found it had a satisfying crunch while the center was soft, almost creamy. 

His face must have betrayed his appreciation because Lecter smiled brightly. “The secret to well prepared potatoes is rendered goose fat. An indulgence, so I hope you aren’t overly concerned by your cholesterol.”

“Not at all. Is this the cut of meat you were talking about the other day,” Will asked, looking at the peppercorn crusted medallion on his plate, the center rosy with blood. 

“It is. My butcher rarely fails to impress.” He watched a moment as Will poked at his meat with a fork, his injured had laying useless in his lap. “May I?”

Giving up Will sighed, leaned back into his seat as Lecter took a moment to wipe at his mouth with a crimson napkin. Pushing back his chair he came to stand behind Will, taking Will’s knife and fork in hand to cut with surgical precision.

“I take it you’ve done this before?”

“There are some that like to be pampered,” Lecter said, his voice a low rumble by Will’s ear that he felt shiver across his skin. He swallowed at the unexpected shock of arousal and held himself still until Lecter finished his task. He covered his blush behind another si[ of wine as Lecter withdrew back to his side of the table. “Though I don’t believe you are one of those.”

“Not really, no,” Will said as he speared the newly-cut tenderloin and brought it to his mouth. He could feel Lecter’s eyes on him as he brought the fork to his mouth, watching as he tasted. The meat was perfectly prepared, not too bloody, not too overdone, and Will’s eyes closed momentarily as he savored the flavors. “Though I’m starting to see the appeal.”

Lecter’s solicitous expression blossomed into an infectious smile and Will hardly noticed the dull ache in his cheek as he smiled in kind. 

“And now you understand the source of my popularity,” Lecter said as he turned his attention to his own plate and yeah, Will understood now what set this man apart from any of the others downstairs. The meal was incredible, but it was more than that. From the moment Will had stepped into Lecter’s quarters, he had been made to feel as if he, and he alone, were the center of Lecter’s attention. Questionable art notwithstanding, Will felt like every moment of their evening had been carefully orchestrated with Will Graham in mind and to hold the regard of a man as sophisticated and impressive as Hannibal Lecter was a heady thing. If he could duplicate this feeling for each of his clients it was little wonder he was so sought out. 

“Do you have any clients tonight?”

“I cleared my schedule. I’m fortunate enough to be in the position that I can afford to take the occasional evening for myself.”

“Well we have that in common. Though in my case I wouldn’t necessarily use the word _fortunate_.” Will chewed, thoughtful in the easy silence. “I realized that I never thanked you. For whatever it is you did to convince Harlan not to press charges.”

“It was nothing.”

“How did you convince him, anyway?”

“You don’t want to know,” Lecter assured him, his light, offhand manner made Will smile as he chewed. “How have you enjoyed your time convalescing?”

“I hate it,” Will said truthfully, and it was a testament to Lecter’s skills that Will felt comfortable in his candor. “Not that I want to get back to, you know, _work_ , but I hate feeling so useless. And the walls of my room aren’t all that exciting to look at.”

“You aren’t a prisoner here, you could go out if you really wanted.”

“Looking like this?”

“Well, then, you could visit me if you need a change of scenery. My evenings are usually occupied, as you know, but my days are free.”

“Why?”

“I think we could be friends.”

It seemed like such a strange concept, this offer of friendship, that Will chewed thoughtfully rather than respond. There was no reason to take the other man at anything other than his word, but it didn’t quite make sense. Just like this dinner, clearly well considered, made no sense to him. All Lecter knew about Will Graham was that he was a less-than stellar _employee_ that threw a john out the window. Hardly the most attractive candidate for friendship. And yet, here they were, eating a companionable meal together.

_If you think you can glean any understanding from him I invite you to try,_ du Maurier had said and Will knew there was something he was missing, some key bit of information...

Will didn’t feel as his eyes fluttered closed, his mind whirling through everything he knew about this other man, recreating their conversations, walking backwards through time to the first moment, shivering and naked on the lawn, when he was so certain he was being watched. Any rational man would try to distance himself from the mess that was Will Graham, but for some reason Lecter reached out. 

“You’re not altruistic,” Will said 

_or else he would have showed concern for Will right away, from the first night. Instead Lecter had waited, lingering in windows_

“--and you don’t like to waste your time on inferiors--” 

_which is why no one downstairs knows who he is, why only the painfully-together du Maurier knows him, which is why his customers are the elite, could gift him with rare artwork, are those that would appreciate a fine meal over a quick fuck_

“--you’re lonely, but too proud to seek out just anyone for company. No, for you it’s only the finest things, the rarest. Is that why...”

“Why what?” Lecter prompted. When Will opened his eyes it was to see Lecter still eating carefully but he was leaning forward, just slightly, his eagerness almost imperceptible. Fuck, but he was a cool one though now that Will knew to look, he could see beyond the shallow facade and see the spark of something else. Something that had real depth and electricity and, somewhere at the edges, a spill of darkness that lay in wait. 

The darkness didn’t scare Will, he was all-too acquainted with his own.

“You’ve heard of me. You know what I can do, what my mind is capable of.”

The sound of cutlery as it was deliberately placed on china was sharp, exact. “I may have made some inquiries.”

“With whom?”

“Jack Crawford,” Lecter said and the name fell on Will like a blow. 

“How do you know Jack Crawford?”

Lecter regarded Will, his palms pressed together in consideration. “He and I have shared a few meals together.”

Will choked on a laugh. “Is that what you call it?”

“Yes. I have a closer acquaintanceship with his wife, and through her he and I have gotten to know one another. Jack Crawford comes to me on occasion for dinner and for conversation. He had told me about you, your ability, and though he hoped you would join him at the FBI there was some complications involving your evaluation.”

_\--too unstable--_

“A few months ago he mentioned you were in desperate need of a job, I suggested the Helmsley as a good fit.”

Will’s throat was tight, shame and anger choking him in equal measure. “Did he tell you why I needed money?”

“He didn’t tell me the specifics, no.” 

_Small mercies,_ Will thought as Lecter continued to speak. 

“I assured him if you were to come to the Helmsley I would be able to keep an eye on you.”

_For all the good that did._

“Have you talked to him about this,” Will pointed to his face, to the marks of violence that stretched across his cheekbone and raked across his temple.

“I have.”

No wonder there were no charges brought against Will, not when the attack happened on Jack Crawford’s pet freak. He knew what those at the bureau thought of him, though they were far more polite about it then his fellow officers back at the department in New Orleans had been. Will had heard the whispers that followed him whenever Crawford had requested his presence at a crime scene from his Captain. 

_The FBI’s little butt boy._

And given his current occupation it was ironic how right they had turned out to be. 

“I hope that this new information doesn’t make my offer of friendship seem disingenuous. I meant what I said: I think we could be friends.”

“On Jack’s orders?”

“His recommendation, perhaps, but not his orders.”

Will turned it over in his mind, wanted to give it the consideration a man like Lecter was due, but it was his obstinance getting the better of him that made him say: “I don’t find you that interesting.” 

Rather than take offense, Lecter’s eyes glinted in amusement. 

“You will,” he assured as he wiped his mouth and rose from the table, unfazed. “Dessert?”

Will stayed away from Lecter for the next two days, mulling over their dinner together and all that was said and unsaid. He lay in bed at night, the faint sounds of thumping from next door trickling through the walls despite all the soundproofing that had invariably done to the building, and imagined they were Lecter’s footsteps against his ceiling. His eyes didn’t even need to close to conjure images of the other man hosting a private dinner for two, the heat in his eyes as he moved through the steps of a well-choreographed dance of seduction. Where Will had simply coasted in his pick ups with clients, it was obvious that Lecter had elevated it to a high art. And though Will had a hopelessly poor upbringing, though he knew it was reflected in his manners and attire, Will could appreciate something as finely crafted as Lecter when it was in front of him. 

When on day three he finally ascended the stairs to Lecter’s floor, the other man didn’t seem surprised in the least. Instead he handed Will a mug of just-percolated coffee and directed Will to the sideboard where an onion waited, ready to be chopped. It was so easy to slide beside Lecter and take his place, silently helping prepare the next meal they would share in what Will could already see would be a long line of shared meals. It was domestic as hell, and strangely non-sexual, but it felt exactly right. Will felt himself relax, incrementally, until the burn of tension between his shoulder blades receded and left in its place a calm that, if Will didn’t know better, tasted something like hope.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, sorry about that. But here's hoping this is the start to regular updates again! As long as that dumb thing called life doesn't get in the way ;-)

“Feel free to make use of my library,” Lecter told Will one morning over breakfast when Will had groused one too many times about feeling useless. “I can’t guarantee that you will find anything of interest to you, but you are welcome to try.”

So one afternoon Will found himself bracing his still-bandaged hand against the ladder’s rungs and, ignoring the ache of pain it produced, stubbornly climbed until he made it to the mezzanine's landing. The spines of the books were fine, leather things and Will was surprised by the titles he found. There were some books about music and art, of course-- _The Lives of the Artists_ and beautifully bound copies of Verdi and Puccini-- but it was the medical books that made Will stoop in closer. 

Not just a hefty token copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_ either, but real medical books that used jargon that made Will’s head ache to follow. He flipped through one with what looked like old, hand drawn diagrams, the yellowing pages with worn, thumbed through edges that attested to previous owners. Will stopped, turning the pages back to a previous illustration that gave him pause. 

Hans von Gersdorff’s _Der verwundete Mann_ it said and Will stared at it, the drawing of a man eviscerated by various weapons and their entry points. There was something about the drawing, something that teased at the back of his mind but remained strangely illusive. 

Something familiar. 

“Anything interesting?” Lecter asked behind Will, who startled. A hand on his shoulder held fast for a moment before disappearing, and Will felt less steadied by that brief bite of contact than he should have been. Looking down he saw Lecter had taken his shoes off, no wonder Will hadn’t heard him approach. 

Wordlessly he tipped the book over so that Lecter could see the cover.

“If you are still suffering from insomnia, that ought to help the problem. If it’s light reading you are looking for, I’m sure you could find something better.”

Will blinked away the last lingering traces of uneasiness. “A lot of medical books here,” he observed passively.

“Sentimentality. I couldn’t bring myself to do away with them.”

“Did you study medicine?”

“I was an emergency room surgeon for many years.”

Will was so surprised by the admission that he looked up, and was startled by the intimacy of finding those dark eyes boring into his own. 

A flippant quirk of Lecter’s lips and Will felt himself released from the other man’s gaze, the intensity lessening like the turning of a pressure valve. “Although that was in another life.”

“What happened?”

Lecter’s eyes perused his book collection, finger stroking the back of a particular volume as if he was remembering it fondly, before contemplatively tapping the space that was left by the volume still in Will’s hands. Will hastily returned the book he was holding, hands strangely unsteady, but Lecter didn’t notice. His eyes were distant, lost in remembering.

“A patient died,” he said simply. His European accent gave the words a starkness that Will could feel in his guts. “I felt a staggering amount of responsibility.”

A flash of red filled Will’s eyes. Pale skin, dark hair. Terrified eyes that try to catch his but he is too busy. Blood seeping between his fingers.

“I understand,” Will whispered as his sight refocused. Lecter was silent, staring at Will, studying him, and Will let him. Considered if penance for clumsily reopening what must still be a psychological wound.

“Perhaps you do,” he mused. “At any rate, I did have a purpose for seeking you out. I’m afraid I’m going to be entertaining this afternoon.”

“Oh,” Will said, shaking his head. “Sorry, yeah, I can go, just let me-”

“Will,” Lecter said and Will’s nervous babbling ceased instinctively, waiting for Lecter’s next words like a dog eager to be released from a command. “There’s no need. Please, stay here as long as you’d like. I’m afraid my client’s schedule is erratic, thus the sudden notice, but it shouldn’t take that long.”

“A quickie, huh?” Will asked, smiling in amusement.

“Precisely. I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise when she arrived, but we won’t be lingering overmuch.”

So Will stayed where he was, drawing his knees in to his chest as he sat with his back to the shelves of books. It was comfortable to be up there, an observer of Lecter’s world. 

He watched as Lecter slipped into shoes- leather and sharp looking- and put to rights the already immaculately cleaned drawing room. When the doorbell rang, a single sonorous chime, he watched as Lecter’s pale hair crossed the room to get the door, just as he watched as he showed his guest to the bedroom. Will could hear the no-nonsense click of the guest’s heels muffled in the carpets and he saw a shock of riotous, red curls pass underneath as the pair made their way to what he could only guess was Lecter’s bedroom. The one place on Lecter’s floor that Will hadn’t been yet, but he closed his eyes and could imagine what it might look like. Tasteful, like everything else in his possession, with the slightest hint of the erotic, though that could be wishful thinking on Will’s part. 

Will did have to give it to whoever designed Lecter’s rooms- they didn’t skimp on the sound proofing. Unlike in his rooms, the air around Will here was absolutely silent, not even an errant murmur to betray the coupling that was no doubt taking place next door. His knees pressed uncomfortably into his still-bruised cheekbone as his eyes fluttered closed and he found himself drifting off, finding among Lecter’s books the sleep that had eluded him the night before. 

He had woken sometime later, the tendons in his neck bitterly protesting the position he had left them in. Lecter’s words came back to Will as he used his good hand to massage his neck back into place. 

_A staggering amount of responsibility,_ he had said and though Will had been able to keep his distance he knew it was only a matter of time before he was led back to the iron gates where the source of his own feelings of responsibility could be found. 

_Baltimore Center for Rehabilitation_ the sign read and he had the cabdriver let him out at the corner so that he could make the long walk up to the building’s doors alone. It was colder than he expected, with the lightest dusting of snow on the ground. Winter had crept up while he had hidden himself away and his light windbreaker was just barely able to keep him warm. 

He passed his driver’s license to the woman at the reception desk as he turned the clipboard around, printing his name along with all the other visitors’. The woman tapped at the computer before returning his identification to him.

“Here you go, Mr. Graham. It’s been a while since you were last here.”

Will stared down at his wallet as he slid his ID back where it belonged. “I had some business obligations that kept me away.”

“Well, it’s good to see you again, just the same. I know Abigail will be happy that you’ve come to visit.”

Guilt gnawed at his stomach at that blithe statement and his teeth gritted at he tried for a smile. He was waved through the door, the buzzing of the electric lock lifting sounded like angry bees vying for dominance.

“You remember where you’re going?” Will nodded. “Oh and Mr. Graham? I have a note here that says Dr. Mui would like to speak to you. When you get the chance.”


	8. Chapter 8

Although Will intended to check in on Abigail first, he ran into Dr. Mui in the hallway.

“Mr. Graham,” the soft spoken doctor said, shaking his hand, eyes carefully _not_ looking at the bruises on Will’s face. 

“You wanted to see me?” Will prompted and Dr. Mui looked up, confused.

“I did?”

“The front desk-”

“Oh, yes. Probably. I’m sorry, I’m sure I left word with them but you have to understand, there’s quite a few patients under my care...”

“And I haven’t been by in a while.”

The doctor nodded his thanks at Will’s understanding. “I have Abigail’s file in my office, if you wouldn’t mind just stopping in before you leave?”

“I’ll be by,” Will promised as the doctor shuffled by, continuing his rounds, though he could probably guess what it was about. More therapies, new treatments, all of which meant the Center wanted more money out of him. 

“I just saw her,” Dr. Mui called out over his shoulder. “She’s in the dayroom.” 

The dayroom was a comfortable collection of sofas and cheerful photographic prints of animals and nature framed on the walls. Someone had apparently thought sea foam green was a suitably tranquil color, because it was painted across the walls and mimicked in the curtains that hung by the windows. A television was playing softly in the corner, and a few patients huddled around it, though Abigail wasn’t among them. Instead she was in an armchair facing the large bay windows, the natural light glowing faintly on her pale face, playing across the still- vivid pink scar that bisected her neck. 

With her eyes closed there was a peacefulness to her expression, which was new. Maybe that new psychiatrist she started seeing the last time Will had been by was doing her some good.

Will cleared his throat, not wanting to startle the teenager before he spoke, but still her eyes opened with a start. When he said her name Abigail’s blue eyes remained fixed ahead even as her hands grasped toward him. Will put his hand on her shoulder and she twisted so that she could throw her arms around him, the intensity of her hug was overwhelming. 

“Abigail,” he said her name again, this time his voice cracked, his throat tight as guilt and remorse jockeyed for space in it.

“Where have you been?” She demanded, and the unsteadiness in her words made him bow his head. “I tried calling and calling and--”

“My phone was disconnected,” Will explained.

“-no one could tell me if you were ever coming back-”

“I’m so sorry, Abigail,” Will whispered, his good hand crept up of its own accord to brush back the silk strands of hair that had worked free of her braid. 

“I thought you hated me.” Her words were muffled, mumbled into the planes of Will’s chest.

“I couldn’t hate you.”

“Sure you could,” she pulled back to swipe at her tear-reddened eyes. “My dad-”

“Hey,” he said, voice firm. “Your father has nothing to do with it. There were just some things I needed to take care of, some changes I needed to make in my life. None of it had anything to do with your father.”

“But he killed all those girl and--”

“He did. You didn’t.” If Will knew nothing else in this life, he knew that much. “You don’t need to take on his guilt. You just need to focus on healing, that’s all you need to do.”

Abigail laughed bitterly, pulling away. “Well good, because that’s all I _can_ do in this place.” 

She faced the window again, instinctively seeking out the light she could only feel. Will was near enough now he could see her pupils react, become smaller, but still she stared flatly ahead. Will stood to find a seat but her hand whipped up, grabbed clumsily at his coat and he capitulated, awkwardly sitting on the chair’s armrest. 

“Sorry, I just, I don’t want to be alone.”

Will hadn’t seen Abigail this needy since she first woke from her coma to discover her parents were dead, half her body was inaccessible to her, and the only person around to soothe away her panic attacks was the very man that had shot her father. Will hadn’t been able to leave the hospital in those early weeks, not when her hand skittered across the sheets every time she woke up, hungrily seeking contact. 

Will had taken all his paid vacation time to stay with her. When that was all gone, then he used up all his unpaid sick leave, until even that was gone. His last days as a cop came and went, fading away without hardly registering until he was forced to sell his belongings, then his house and finally, when there was nothing left, his body.

And wasn’t that one string he never expected Crawford, of all people, to pull for him.

Though Abigail might be absolved of her father’s kills, Will was still a murderer in his own right and he knew his path to absolution could be tracked in the progress made by Abigail’s healing body. Whatever he made from the sale of the house and all his belongings went into the bank account he set up to take care of Abigail’s medical bills, just as now all the money from du Maurier’s served the same purpose. 

He stared at the scar on her throat and his mind rang with a familiar refrain: _If only I had been faster._

“Where’s your wheelchair?”

“Don’t need it anymore. I’m walking on my own now, more or less. Besides, I’ve graduated,” Abigail said, patting the white and red cane propped by her side. “Though I’m still crap at figuring out what’s what with this thing. There’s a seventy percent chance I’ll die trying to get back to my room from here.”

Although her talk was morbid, her voice was cheerful and Will had to smile at her gallows humor. 

“Progress.”

“So they tell me,” she agreed. “They have me doing some new therapy. Vision restoration therapy. Trying to ‘rewire the neuro-pathways in my brain’ and ‘access the brain’s neuro-plasticity’ or something.”

That sounded like something directly out of the mouths of her doctors, though the layman in him wasn’t sure what it all meant. He made a mental note to check Lecter’s medical books later. 

“Do you like it?”

“I guess,” Abigail shrugged. “It’s just another therapy in a long string of therapies. Nothing else to do here... at this point I don’t really care what all they make me do as long as it fills up the day.” 

She smiled ruefully. “Of course, they tell me apathy is a symptom of frontal lobe damage so there you go.”

Abigail curled into Will’s side and they sat, talking, his good arm around her shoulders (his bad one carefully tucked away- she didn’t need to take on his pain along with her own), until the light out the window dimmed. With an eye to the fading sky Will finally told Abigail he would need to leave soon. As lenient as visiting hours at the Center were, he did still need to find Dr. Mui before be left. Abigail took the news with a stoicism that broke Will’s heart to see.

“Can you drop by and say good bye after you talk to Dr. Mui? Before you leave?”

“I can do that,” Will agreed, stroking Abigail’s temple affectionately. 

Dr. Mui had to be paged by his assistant but when the doctor finally let Will into his office, it was about what he was expecting to hear. There were new therapies they wanted to try and new specialists they thought Abigail ought to see (“I know you said you wanted to be told before we started any new treatments, but we weren’t able to get ahold of you...”). He was appraised of her progress, which she had more or less caught Will up on herself, only Dr. Mui’s jargon was far more professional (“Astounding locomotor progress” he said. “Pretty much not a total gimp anymore,” Abigail had said.)

“That seems to be about it,” Dr. Mui said, rustling through the file folder of notes one last time. “I think the billing department needed to straighten some things out with you, if you could give them a call later--”

“Yeah, I’m sure they do. I moved recently.”

“--and if you can leave a current phone number with us in case of emergencies--”

“I’ll stop by the store and pick up a new phone tonight,” Will said, eyes skimming across the framed diplomas displayed throughout the office. He could probably give the Helmsley’s number, but he balked at bringing his other life anywhere near where Abigail was. 

“Then that’s about it.” The doctor stood and offered his hand for Will to shake one last time. “She is making remarkable progress. I know it may seem slow and she gets frustrated easily, but she is strong-willed and stubborn. To recover from the sort of trauma her brain went through, being deprived of oxygen for so long, she’ll need that stubbornness to see her through. I’ve seen it in patients before, and I see it in Abigail now.”

The dayroom was empty when Will checked it, but he remembered the way through the twisting hallways to the room Abigail had been assigned. There was a plush, quilted comforter on the bed that was worn in patches. It looked handmade, one final token from her former life. Other than that the room was free from personal possessions. 

Their bedrooms now had that in common.

He tapped at the door and Abigail smiled in his direction. “You found me.”

“It’s pretty bare in here,” Will observed and Abigail shrugged.

“The nurses keep offering to bring me things to decorate the room with but it seems sort of pointless. I can’t see what the room looks like anyway, so it doesn’t bother me.” Her face took on a pensive cast. She bit her lip. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, for now. But I’ll be back.”

“Can’t you take me with you?” Abigail and her voice was small, vulnerable before she shook her head. “No, no. Ignore me, I know you can’t, I just. I’m sorry. Don’t listen to me.”

“Oh, Abigail,” Will said sadly. “I _wish_ I could but it’s just not the right time. For your doctors or for me.”

“I know that. I promise I know that.” As he watched she tossed her braid over one shoulder, visibly composing herself, steeling her heart and his fractured to see it. 

“Some other time, though,” Will promised and he knew then that somehow he’d have to keep his promise, even if he couldn’t yet see a future beyond where he wasn’t paying his debt on his back. 

“Yeah, sure,” she said, words hollow.

“I’ll be back to see you. I won’t fall off the face of the earth again.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll get a new cell phone. Tonight. You can call me whenever you want, no matter the time of day. If I’m busy--” 

_busy. sweaty backs and invading bodies, losing himself piece by piece._

“If I’m busy, I’ll call you right back. You won’t be alone again.”

True to his word Will had the cab driver drop him off at a nearby mall where he could reactivate his cellular account. Bypassing the smart phones, with their sleek rectangles of glass, he opted for a phone so old and cheap the cashier joked they should be paying _him_ to take it off their hands. 

As Will left he started back to the mall’s entrance but a storefront window brought him up short. The mannequin’s outfit was tight, en effortless sensuality in the fall of the fabric. 

A trick of the light made it so he could just make out his own reflection in the glass before him: the drabness of his coat, the peek of flannel beneath. Perfectly serviceable clothes, of course, but he knew they were a way to keep others at bay. 

_Nothing to see here. Don’t look too closely,_ his outfits said, and nobody did. 

Will knew if he was going to be able to eventually provide the kind of life for Abigail he wanted to he would need more money. If he was going to be making more money at the Helmsley, he would need clothes that invited rather than repelled. 

For that he was going to need a new look.


	9. Chapter 9

There was a full length mirror on the interior door of his closet that Will never used. He usually avoided looking into mirrors- didn’t care for the man that looked back. Beverly had once quipped something about him dressing in the dark and it wasn’t too far from the truth. The few clothes he owned he had owned for long enough that he knew, without looking, how they fell, where they fit, and what combinations led to the fewest double takes from passersby. 

The clothes on him now were new, different, and wholly frustrating. He had been scrutinizing his appearance for the better part of an hour trying to figure out how to make the midnight blue shirt tuck into the incredibly tight leather trousers so that he _didn’t_ look like a pirate. The man at the store had been able to accomplish it easily enough, even if his hand had lingered under Will’s waistband for an uncomfortably long time. 

Giving up, he left the silk shirt untucked, edges hanging down his hips as he scrubbed his face with his hands in frustration. His cheeks were smooth, his ever-present scruff shaved off after an impulsive moment with a razor. He looked younger suddenly, the blue of his shirt playing against, drawing out, the color in his eyes so that now they were shockingly large in his pale face. The ghoulish green-yellow of his healing cheekbone only worked to make him appear far more pathetic than he was comfortable with. 

With all the money he had just spent on a new wardrobe, pity _wasn’t_ the effect he was hoping to evoke. However a glance at the clock told Will he’d have to settle for now; the clients would be arriving soon.

Walking down the hall a long, low whistle interrupted his fumbling with his shirt’s cuffs.

“Looking good, Will,” Beverly said, eyeing Will up and down as his faced burned red under the scrutiny.

“I just picked up a few things,” Will muttered. Beverly inspected his new trousers, running a professional hand across the supple black leather. 

“This is really nice stuff.”

“It ought to be. It cost enough.”

Beverly smiled, white teeth glinting from behind painted crimson lips. “Well, those things will more than pay for themselves. Take it from me,” she said as she ran a hand down her own leather vest.

He tried for a smile as he stepped away, but her hand brought him up short. With a frown and pursed lips she scrutinized Will closer, lingering on his still-bruised cheek.

“Here, come with me,” she commanded and Will found himself obeying, no doubt like countless men before him. 

Will had never been in Beverly’s room before, though he wasn’t surprised by what he found there: whips, chains, leather, dildos, and a few other things his limited toy knowledge hadn’t words for. Flipping on the light on a gothic-looking vanity, Beverly pushed Will down until he was sitting in a chair facing the huge mirror.

Beverly clearly didn’t share Will’s aversion to mirrors.

As she rustled about in a drawer, a face-down paperback book caught Will’s attention. Without his glasses he needed to squint though he could make it out to be an Agatha Christie novel. It was water damaged and bent in odd places. 

“I like mystery novels,” Beverly shrugged when she caught his quizzical look. “I always get a rush when I solve the cases early on. Anyway, here, tilt your face up, I found what I was looking for.”

Will did as he was told and got a smear of goop across his cheek for his effort.

“Concealer,” Beverly explained, blending the make up in with practiced pats of her middle finger. “It’s not the best match for your skin, but it’ll work. Tell me if I press your bruise too hard.”

“No, it’s fine,” Will said and he watched in the mirror as his reflection’s complexion was smoothed until a porcelain sheen hid the damaged skin away. 

Stepping back Beverly inspected her work. 

“Not bad,” she said, wiping her finger off with a nearby tissue. “Here, keep the bottle. You’ll probably have to touch it up as you go tonight and I have tons.”

Will started to stand but the considering expression on her face brought him up short. 

“Was there something else?”

“Maybe,” she mused out loud. “Just go with me on this, okay?”

“Look up,” Will was told and when he did Beverly came in close, pulling the crease of his eye taut. “I figure, with what all you’re wearing you might as well complete the look. Go big or go home, right? Not that you need it; your eyelashes are so dark anyway, but I’ve always loved a boy in eyeliner.”

He wasn’t sure about the final result, but he trusted Beverly’s instinct enough to give it a chance. The eyeliner was applied subtly enough, and though it made his eye somehow feminine, something about it enhanced his masculine jaw and the steeliness in his eyes enough to make him look... interesting.

“I love me some good, old-fashioned gender fuckery,” Beverly sighed happily. “Now just bat those beautiful baby blues out there and you’ll have them eating out of your hands.”

Beverly cocked her head, a filthy smile dancing across her mouth. “Or eating out anything else you might think of. Come on, let’s go.”

du Maurier was by the bar when they entered the main room, inspecting scotch decanters and checking off items from a clipboard. Final preparations, which was something Will had seen dozens of times before, but for some reason his heart beat slightly faster. He knew it wasn’t rational, but he had a mental flash of du Maurier stalking over on her red stilettos and demanding Will get back to his room, that it was too soon to come back to work. Instead she stayed where she was, her calculating eyes skimming him from head to toe. Cocking an eyebrow, she didn’t give her thoughts away, only turned back to her clipboard and he took her silence as approval to make his way to his usual spot. 

When the first of the clients trickled in Will could sense a difference in the attention he was paid. Where he usually was ignored by the more discerning guests, left alone until the room cleared out and whoever was in a hurry would just make due with the dregs, suddenly he found himself among the first sought out. 

From then on, Will’s life was reduced to the times he was working and the times he was dreaming. 

He worked the room like he never had before, taking hands and cutting small talk short as he led man after man back to his bedroom. 

Alone in the daylight hours his nightmares worked overtime, terrified sweat soaking the bedding, making vines of the sheets as they wrapped around his ankles and clung to the small of his back. 

Weeks passed and he no longer needed the concealer Beverly had given him once the bruises faded away. But after the success of that first night he continued to apply the eyeliner she ceremoniously presented him with, uncertain hands becoming more practiced with time until his eyes no longer watered as he painted the underneath eyelids with smoky rings. 

He began to dream strange things, macabre scenes, where instead of watching as Garret Jacob Hobbs brutally sliced at his daughter’s throat Will was the once with the knife, Abigail’s hands desperately prying at his steadying grip to no avail. Bleak dreams, where Abigail shoved him out the window as Lecter watched passively from upstairs, Will’s body broken and bloodied.

The dreams only served to remind him of the debt he owed-- of the girl of months ago blindly searching for his hand in the hospital-- and he worked harder than before. Up-selling the clients that wanted him for his mouth or hands, he stroked and cajoled, convinced them to take him, fuck him up the ass, and the envelops of cash that slid under his door every morning became thicker as over and over again he sold the most expensive thing he had on offer. 

His only salvation was his twice weekly trips to the Center, sitting for long stretches of peaceful time staring out the bay window, Abigail’s hand in his. Will gave Abigail his new cell number but she never used it, said her nightmares had vanished, but he could taste the lie in her words. He knew she was reticent to admit to them, didn’t want to chase him away by seeming more damaged than she already was, and a part of Will was relieved. He was barely keeping it together with his own haunted imaginings, he didn’t know that he had it in him to be the guardian of Abigail’s mind, too.

After each visit he found himself reconsecrated in purpose, working the room harder and harder than before. As a cop he had used his unusual aptitude to give voice to killers, taking in a kill scene and making leaps of logic that seemed inexplicable, now he sized up every new man that walked in and became exactly what the client wanted. Man after man was reeled in, fucked, and tucked away and he was seeking out the next. 

In his weekly health screenings the doctor gave Will ointment for the tears that never-quite heal. Every penetrating cock was agony as it pushed in but Will could only grit his teeth against the pain and croon about how good it felt, how much he loved it. 

Abigail was counting on him.

He regularly woke up to his own screams.

Beverly was worried, but he doesn’t have time for small talk, not when there was money to be made.

Sometime in there his cast was removed, but it was meaningless--barely registered-- except that now he had two hands available to pull hips in closer. Make it faster, deeper, harder--

_\--yes, he loves it--_

\--his body was always covered in sweat and he could feel the tacky saline stretch across his body like a second skin.

_feels so good_

Abigail’s smile when she recounted her ability to discern shadows, her damaged brain healing, making new connections.

_Worth it._

Will’s eyes were hollow in the mirror as he traced another layer of liner over the night before’s, his clothes draped beautifully, enticingly, across his shoulders, even if the trousers were getting too big.

_have to buy some more, make sure they fit this time_

Will knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace forever- that at some point his body would fracture just as surely as his rapidly fragmenting mind--

_blood between his fingers, Abigail’s throat in his grip, a shadowy silhouette in the upstairs window that he can no longer remember, face gone, just shadows_

\--blood between his legs, tiny pinpricks dot the sheets and he kept the lights off, easier to avoid concerned clients that way. Concern made for a slower turn around time.

New shirt, new leather pants, tighter, and he smiled and flirted--

_there’s a wall in the distance that he knew he was rapidly approaching, full speed_

\--mouthed the words; they were too happy to hear them. The evidence was in the shoes and hands and aftershave that told Will what the client would be eager to hear.

_yeah, like that, give it to me_

The breaking point came and it was one demanding body too many, one ass-deep cock too many, and he can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality. The hands that bat at his unrelenting grip are bigger than Abigail’s, stronger as they pry his grip away from the straining throat, and Will stared in confusion.

_Where’s the blood?_

Garrett Jacob Hobbs’ milky eyes stared back as a voice, raspy from the attack, called Will a crazy fucking bitch. Will didn’t move, scrubbed at his eyes with shaking hands, as the man--

\-- _not_ Garrett Jacob Hobbs--

\--dressed, slammed out of the room.

In a daze Will pulled on the leather pants tossed haphazardly across the room and he didn’t even realize he was walking until he was halfway up the staircase he hadn’t been to in...

Lecter wasn’t there, but the dishes piled across the counter spoke of a guest and Will stood in the middle of the kitchen, confused.

How did he get here?  
There was an armchair in the corner and when he sat he could survey Lecter’s domain of stainless steel and glimmering knives. Will’s eyes fluttered closed and, pulling his legs in to his chest, he fell into the first dreamless sleep in longer than he could remember.


	10. Chapter 10

It was the sound of running water that finally woke Will from the exhausted slump he had fallen into. At first he was confused, his sleep addled mind tried to fit the sounds around him with the dream behind his eyes and there was a strange moment where Will was sure he was near his home in Wolf Trap, sitting by a creek he'd never seen before but somehow was convinced it'd  
always been there. 

The soft breeze stirred Abigail's long, loose hair and she turned and smiled.

"Do you see?" She asked and she looked at him, really looked, and he knew that she could.

For the first time in a long time Will woke with the vaguest feeling of optimism. 

From where he sat, Will could see Lecter was washing dishes. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the muscles of his athletic back bunching against the faintly striped blue shirt, it was almost the same view as the first time Will had met Lecter. It felt like a lifetime ago, but was actually just weeks, and that realization filled Will with an almost unbearable wave of exhaustion. He hid his face in the knees that were still pulled up to his chest, and struggled for composure.

"You're awake," Lecter noted, impassively. It was the absolute neutrality in his voice that gave Will the ability to look up. Lecter wasn't even looking at him, was paying more attention to the task of drying flatware with precise swipes of a dishtowel, and for that Will was grateful. 

Will had to clear his throat before he was able to speak. "Yeah. Sorry, I don't know why I came here, I just—"

His mind cast about for a socially acceptable reason for inviting himself into the other man's rooms after so long, but he wasn't the best at socially acceptable at most times, let alone when he hurt as much as he did. The aches, in his over worked muscles, pain in places he'd prefer to ignore... he _hurt_ and there was nothing he could do but ride the rolling waves of it.

He realized Lecter was watching him, waiting patiently for Will to finish his explanation. "I just. I don't know."

Scrubbing at his eyes came away with hands blackened with eyeliner and he realized what an absolute mess he must look like to the perfectly composed Hannibal Lecter. He had makeup smudged around his strained and reddened eyes, not to mention the bites and scratches that cut across his chest and ran sharply up his back. The marks of satisfied customers, they made Will wish he had thrown a shirt on before passing out in Lecter's kitchen.

In a movement that was both practiced and precise, Lecter folded the dishtowel he was using and laid it neatly on the countertop.

"Perhaps you would like to clean yourself up," he said solicitously and how he could sense Will's dawning disgust at his appearance when Lecter's back was still turned was a mystery, but one he felt a swell of relief for.

"That would probably be for the best."

He tried to get out of the armchair but his muscles had congealed sometime as he slept and were unwieldy as he struggled to his feet. Too many hours spent with his knees pressed to his ears— it wasn't his favorite position for so many reasons, but the way his hamstrings felt the next day was chief among them.

_burn of taut, straining muscles as he's pulled nearer, the sloppy intrusion of a tongue in his mouth that he makes himself submit to, respond to, the excruciating intimacy as his head is held between two thick- fingered hands, he's made to look into eyes glazed over with pleasure, blind to his discomfort_

Will shook his head; no need to think about that now.

By the time Will was on his feet, fighting the wince that wanted to furrow his brow, Lecter had crossed the kitchen to lead Will to his bathroom. He barely flickered a glance in Will's direction and the privacy was just another small mercy, and something in Will's chest loosened as he realized he wouldn't need his usual defenses here.

"I could draw a bath, if you would like," Lecter offered.

He was tempted by the offer, especially as he entered the bathroom and saw the enormous basin Lecter called a bath, but he shook his head.

"A shower will be fine." He didn't want to sit in whatever combination of come and sweat was still to be found on his body. Better to let the water sluice it away, down the drain. Too bad a shower couldn't do the same for memories.

A thick towel, the color of decadent chocolate, was pressed into his hands. Lecter didn't so much as brush Will's hand during the pass off and Will wondered how bad he looked that he was given that reprieve from contact.

"There's ointment in that cabinet, when you've finished. For those scratches," a delicate pause. "Or wherever else you might need it."

Will mumbled his thanks and then he was left alone to worry the leather pants down his thighs. It was a lengthy process to get the pants off, so when his shower was done, he looked balefully at the crumple of black in the corner. The last thing he wanted to do was shimmy his tired hips into their restrictive tightness. Resolutely, Will tied the damp towel around his waist. 

So many men had seen him naked; at this point what was one more?

The faintest glimpse of sunlight crept across a window pane as Will stepped out to find his host. Another night had past and now was the time all good little whores went to sleep. Keeping one hand on the towel's edge to secure it, he found Lecter in the one room he hadn't ever entered before.

Lecter's bedroom was a testament to his opulent tastes and refined sensibilities. Artwork in thick, gold frames hung from the walls and if Will thought the painting in the dining room was erotic, it had nothing on the lush, sensual scenes painted here. There was one near the bed that drew Will in, one where naked torsos and curling limbs writhed and intertwined, faces contorted with mouths agape, and Will stared. It was probably an orgy scene, but Will couldn't help but see an elaborately constructed mass grave.

Even now, nearly a year out of the field and in the bedroom of one of Baltimore's most prestigious escorts, Will still saw death wherever he looked.

"Are you feeling more like yourself," Lecter asked somewhere behind Will.

_Like yourself,_ he said. Not _are you feeling better_ but _like yourself._ the distinction made Will smile to himself.

"I haven't felt like myself in so long, I'm not sure what that would even be like."

"That's an interesting way to answer," Lecter said carefully, buttoning the top of his silken, maroon pajamas. "Who would you be feeling like, if not yourself?"

Long beats of stretching silence. Will struggled to choose his words as Lecter watched.

"How much has Jack Crawford told you about me?" Will asked, eyes trained on the pile of bodies in the artwork before him. 

"He told me you were a skilled profiler. That you were unique; and from a man that has seen as much ugliness in the world as Agent Crawford, that is high praise."

"Unique," Will repeated bitterly. " _A unique cocktail of personality disorder and neurosis._ "

He didn't need to look over, he could feel as Lecter stepped closer.

"Those aren't your words," Lecter observed. "Whose words are those?"

"It doesn't matter," Will mumbled. "What mattered was I was useful to Crawford _because_ I'm not always myself, because I can get lost in someone else's thoughts."

"The thoughts of a killer?"

"My speciality."

"What happened?" Lecter's voice betrayed no disgust, no interest, no grotesque fascination. It was so devoid of inflection that Will found himself answering even as he stared at the painting—

_writhing bodies, sweat, tears, but all he could see was death death death_

_blood between his fingers_

"I got lost," he didn't hear himself answer.

_Do you see?_

"Will?"

Will came back to himself with a jolt. He blinked, and for a heart pounding second he wasn't even sure where he was. He looked down at the towel, still held firm in his grip, and for the first time felt the chill in the room. 

He shivered.

"Please," Lecter said and when Will turned he realized there was a folded pair of gentleman's pajamas, a deep green cousin to the pair Lecter wore, laid on the bed. "You may be more comfortable in those."

"I have antibiotic on," Will warned. "I'll mess them up."

"I think I can afford a new pair," Lecter said with the first hint of amusement Will had heard from him this whole strange evening. He sounded so much like the man that Will had once not-so-long-ago almost considered a friend, that he laughed.

"If I were a more chivalrous man I would offer you the bed and sleep elsewhere," Lecter said as Will turned and slid his legs carefully into the silken pants. "But I entertained a guest earlier this evening that tried my patience."

"No, that's fine," Will said, despite the strange lightness that erupted in his belly. "We can share the bed, I don't mind."

As they settled down, Will was mindful of keeping to his edge of the mattress. After forcing Lecter to take him in like a stray, the last thing he wanted was to accidentally pummel the man if—no, _when_ — Will found himself in the grips of a nightmare.

It was strange, to lay next to a body in the dark that asked nothing of his. 

Strange, and sort of nice. 

From the other side of the bed the sound of breathing deepened, evened out, but now that he was in Lecter's bed Will couldn't stop the whirring of his mind. He wondered if he was asking too much of Lecter's hospitality. Wondered if he had revealed too much of himself by admitting the work he did for Crawford. He thought of what Lecter had said about his client and wondered at the sort of person Lecter would find wanting. He hadn't seemed to be offended by Will's less-than-stellar manners and horrible conversation skills. If anything, Will's antisocial leanings only served to amuse him. Then why—

"Will."

"I thought you were asleep." The absolute darkness made for an easy intimacy.

"I'm not going to ask what's wrong, though I will ask if you were planning on going to sleep."

"Yeah, sorry. Yeah."

The considering noise Lecter made was the only warning Will had before a hand sought out his over the covers and across the space that separated them. 

Will clasped the hand like the lifeline it was and, for the second time that evening, drifted off to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

As Will watched, Hannibal lifted a red and orange mango to his nose and took an inquisitive sniff. It must have passed muster because Hannibal gave the fruit a considering look as he tested it's weight, pressed his fingers into the yielding flesh.

Will shifted from one foot to the other and Hannibal smiled.

"Are you getting bored, Will?"

"No," he lied.  The grocery basket in his hand was heavy, the muscles in his bad arm had atrophied somewhat during his recovery, but Will was determined to regain what he had lost.  One grocery basket at a time, if need be.

"Are you going to let me carry my own groceries today?" Hannibal asked, eyebrow cocked.

"No," Will answered, cheerfully this time and Hannibal shook his head in amusement before returning his attention to the selection of tropical fruit.

With the exception of Tuesday, his weekly visit with Abigail, it had been the same all week as Will followed Hannibal around through his day, a quiet shadow that stayed two steps behind and slightly to his left.  If Will had once been skeptical that the other man was using this "dinner" thing as a euphemism for fucking, the week had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt just how wrong Will had been.  So much of Hannibal's time was spent in preparation for his dinners.  Ingredients were selected with a discerning eye and prepped with an attention to detail that would make any Michelin-rated chef proud.

For Will, it was nice to lose himself in the rhythms of the other man's day, making himself useful when he could.  That meant he spent a lot of his time chopping, washing, and carrying.  Their's was an easy intimacy, one that required little in the way of speaking, which suited Will just fine.

At night Will left Hannibal to his clients and dinners and slipped back to his downstairs world.  He'd hustle the room in his tight clothes, looking at the bridge of a perspective client's nose through dark-rimmed eyes as he smiled, take them back to his room with as much feigned enthusiasm as before, but the fevered desperation that had been his drum beat for so many weeks was gone.  

The nights weren't quite so unbearable when he knew that come 4 A.M. he'd be back in Hannibal's chambers.  If Hannibal was still entertaining, Will would busy himself by cleaning up whatever was left of dinner.

 

"You don't need to do that," Hannibal had said the first time he came in to the  
kitchen to find Will elbow-deep in suds.  His blonde hair was still wet from his shower, adept fingers tightening the sash on his maroon pinstriped robe.

Will had shrugged.  "Not like I had anything better to do."

The second time, Hannibal had watched Will for a full minute before sighing and taking a dish cloth to dry what had already been cleaned.

Afterwards, Will would shower quickly, scrubbing his eyes free from makeup and his skin clean of sweat.  For some reason, housekeeping never seemed to set foot in Hannibal's chambers, so if he hurried he could help Hannibal strip the sheets and make the bed.  No matter how close to the edge of the bed Will fell asleep, he always woke up pressed to Hannibal's side, face buried in Hannibal's unguarded throat.

It was the safest Will had felt in the dark in a long time.

Three mangos were eased into the basket filled already with lemons and limes.  As Hannibal walked away from the produce, Will quietly followed until he found himself in another aisle where Hannibal carefully studied the vast collection of salts.  Not so long ago Will had thought that salt was salt- sure some might be iodized but it was essentially all the same.  As it turned out, salt came in more colors and textures then Will could have ever guessed.

"You don't have enough salt already, Hannibal?" Will teased.

The first time Will had called Hannibal by his given name, it was purely by accident.  As it turned out, it was hard to stay formal when every morning Will woke up with the other man's arm around his waist.  The slip hadn't escaped Hannibal's notice, but he didn't say a word.  He just continued to tenderize the meat on the counter top before him, a pleased smile at the very edge of his lips.

"Hawaiian sea salt," Hannibal explained, as he selected a bottle of dark, sooty crystals.  "The color comes from the addition of charcoal, which will add nice, smokey notes to the ceviche."

"Ceviche, huh," Will said.  "Are you getting the fish here?"

"There's a fish monger two blocks down that has a better selection."

"I know the place.  They're good, but nothing beats freshly caught."

Hannibal idly considered the olive oils. "Do you fish, Will?"

"Used to. Before..."  He trailed off, not sure what to say.  Strange, but he couldn't remember the last time he had fished.  Before the Hobbs case, that was for sure.

"Would you like to?  We could go some time."

Will had to duck his head to hide his laugh as he thought of Hannibal, with his waist coats and pocket squares, in waders.

He'd give a night's earnings to see that.

"I'd like that," Will said evenly.

Hannibal led Will to the checkout line, a hand low on his back, and the warm glow that never seemed to be distant lately started up again in Will's sternum.

As they waited, Hannibal tipped his head down and Will fought a shiver as the other man spoke.

"Does this mean you know how to gut a fish?"

"I've done it a time or two.  Why, are you too squeamish to do it yourself?" he teased, risking a glance up from between his lashes.  Their eyes met for just a moment, not even that, but it was more than enough for that burn in Will's sternum to ignite.

"I can get my hands dirty when I need to," Hannibal said as they moved up in line, and began to stack their purchases for the cashier to scan.  "But wouldn't it be better to get dirty together?"

The tone in Hannibal's voice was low, intimate, and Will felt the words like a caress.  He was thrown for a loop and when he looked up at the motionless cashier, her mouth slightly open, he knew he wasn't alone.

The wickedness in Hannibal's satisfied smirk had Will rolling his eyes.

"And that's why you make the big bucks," he muttered.

A few hours and a trip to the fishmonger later found Will in Hannibal's kitchen, wrist deep in the guts of a halibut.

"You know we could have had them do this for us," Will groused without any real heat.  He had too many happy memories of afternoons lost to lakes and hooks to mind the gory work.

"This is more authentic, no?" Hannibal said from his end of the island, a bowl filled with lemons at his elbow.  His shirtsleeves were folded to expose his forearms and a smart white apron was tied at his hips.  Will had turned down Hannibal when he had offered a similar apron to work in- Will was back in his flannels and jeans and it seemed silly to worry about ruining them.

Plus, he didn't think he would pull an apron off with quite so much panache.  
Hannibal rolled a lemon on the counter before slicing it to be juiced.  He handled the knife with a deftness that Will had to look away from.

There was that warmth in his chest, again.

"There's something I've been wanting to speak to you about, but I haven't known how to broach the subject."

Will's stomach plummeted to his knees but he kept the knife in his hand steady as he answered "Oh?"

His voice was even, hiding his apprehension even if he couldn't quite bring himself to look up from the fish's innards. This is where he says I’ve worn out my welcome, Will thought, and he had to fight to breathe though the tightness in his throat.

"Your financial difficulties," he stopped and Will had never seen the other man uncertain before.  Hannibal carefully squeezed a sliced lemon into a glass measuring cup, neatly containing the run off with a flick of his fingers.  "Are you able to earn enough downstairs to meet your needs?"

“I get by," Will said, and it was true enough.  

As costly as Abigail's medical bills were, he found that lately he was making enough to cover them and set a little aside.  It wasn't much- with the interest that kept piling up, it wasn't nearly enough to fund the future he'd like to provide once she was out of rehab for good- but it was something.  Every time he visited Abigail she asked if he was finally bringing her home.

"Soon," he would say, though he was keenly aware he had no home to bring her to when the time finally came.  
When the time came, he’d just have to figure it out.

A lock of hair fell across Hannibal’s forehead and into his eyes, though he didn’t seem to notice. It made his look boyish despite the professionalism that colored his next words.

"I have a proposition for you.  If you are interested."

Will cocked his head but stayed quiet, waited for Hannibal to continue.

"The client that is dining with me tonight has expressed, in the past, a particular fantasy he would like to explore.” Will waited as Hannibal weighed the silence.  “He and I, and another man.  While usually I would refer a client downstairs for something like that, I can't help but think that over these months we've developed a rapport.”  

Will’s heart was beating faster, though he ignored it.

“I feel a certain fondness for you,” Hannibal continued, voice emotionless, he could have been discussing the tannin content of a Malbec. “And I think you might feel a fondness for me as well."

Fondness.  That was one word for the way Will was coming to feel like an unmoored boat to Hannibal's snaking length of rope.  In the other man he found a steadiness, a balm to Will’s overactive thoughts, and he was fast becoming addicted to it.

"I hope you know that this is your choice, Will.  You needn't feel obligated to me and if you say no nothing between us will change.  We can still spend our free time together, regardless of what you decide.  But," he added, setting the drained lemon aside to slice open the next.  "Should you choose to help me indulge my client, I can offer quite a bit in return."

"How much?" Will asked before he could stop himself.

The figure Hannibal named was nearly double what he could make on his own on a good night.

"What about your cut?"

Hannibal smiled like Will had said something endearingly hopeless.

"That would be what you would make on a sixty-forty split.  This isn't charity, it is a business proposition.  Should it prove successful, we can see about collaborating again in the future, if all parties are amenable."

"What do you want me to do?"

A dark heat filled Hannibal's eyes but he quickly blinked it away, so quickly that Will hardly noticed it, only knew he was suddenly blushing but didn't know why.

"First we finish preparing the ceviche; it needs to marinate for four hours.  Then we will find something for you to wear to dinner."

He considered Will with a tilt of his head.

“You do own a tie, don’t you?”


	12. Chapter 12

Tobias Budge seemed to be cut from the same cultured cloth as Hannibal Lecter.

His posture was impeccable as were his table manners. He wore a suit that, to an untrained eye, might have appeared casual if not for the quality of the fabric or the expert tailoring.

"Tobias owns a collection of stores throughout the northeast that carry fine musical instruments," Hannibal explained as he served the two men. 

Will was all-too aware of Hannibal standing behind his shoulder as he presented Will with his plate, but even without looking he knew Hannibal’s complete focus was on his guest across the table. "Nearly every major orchestra from Maryland to Maine purchase their instruments from his stores."

"We carry primarily stringed instruments," Tobias explained, voice crisp with affluence. "Strings are my passion.  Though exceptions have been made."

“I take it you were able to come to an agreement with the Baltimore Metropolitan Orchestra?”

“Now that they have a new trombonist, I was happy to add a selection of brass instruments to the inventory." He turned to include Will in the conversation. "I take it you haven't been following the news?"

"I try to avoid it."

"Pity.  Tell me, do you play, Will?"

"Uh," Will thought back to the few times his father had left him with his grandmother as a kid. The long afternoons perched on her frail lap, his fingers resting on her long, crooked ones as she played anything from simple scales to scores by Rachmaninoff. "Not really.”

He knew he ought to be making a greater effort at being charming, but he wasn't exactly loquacious at the best of times.  There weren't many dinner parties in the boatyards of Biloxi.  And even if there were, he couldn't imagine the rough and dirty boy he was ever being put on anyone's guest list.  Here Will was completely out of his element, so he kept a neutral expression on his face while the conversation swirled onward without him.  
Watching Hannibal here, so clearly in his element, so absolutely in control of the seduction, was entertainment in itself and Will settled in to enjoy the show.

He wondered if that’s what Will could provide for Hannibal: an appreciating audience.  He liked to perform- Will had no doubt all of this from the wine to the faint strains of violins coming from the sound system- wasn't part of a carefully orchestrated performance.  The conversation might have gotten away from him, but Will could still appreciate the gentle rhythm of Hannibal and Budge's back and forth, the cadence of discourse where what was said was less important than the layers that twined beneath it all.

_I want you, I intend to have you,_ and the pauses that drew out longer even as heat filled the unguarded spaces.

Finally Budge dabbed at his mouth with his napkin as Hannibal rose to clear the table. Will started to get up to help but the look Hannibal shot him made him hesitate, reconsider.

"Thank you, Hannibal,” Budge said as he swirled the last of his wine. “As always you prepared a masterpiece."

"I'm afraid I can't take all the credit," Hannibal's hand fell onto Will' s shoulder, less of a seduction and more a show of camaraderie. "Will was instrumental in preparing the meal tonight."

Now that he had been named, Will could feel the weight of Budge's regard as he was sized up from across the table. He held himself still, head tilted up, and impassively let the client look his fill. As out of his element as he had been with the dinner's small talk, here was something he was used to.

Hannibal retreated to the kitchen and Budge held out his hand, beckoning.

"Come here, Will," he said and Will obeyed until he stood over Budge, waiting to be told what to do next.

"When I told Hannibal I wanted to share someone with him, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"I don't have to-" Will started but he stopped when Budge placed two careful fingers on Will’s hip.

"Nevertheless, you are a welcome surprise."

Reaching up until he could wrap his hand around the curve of Will's shoulder, Budge urged Will down until their mouths met in a kiss. Half kneeling, half draped in Budge's lap, Will met the other man's tongue with his own.

"Getting started already, I see," Hannibal's voice came from somewhere above, but Will knew better than to pull away before Budge was done.  "Would anyone care for some coffee?"

Budge took his time, his hand coming up to hold Will’s chin motionless but it wasn't necessary.  Will wasn’t intending to move until told to. By now he knew how to deal with the kinds of clients that got off on being in control. Finally Budge pulled away and gave Will an appraising look.

"So you do know how to use your tongue.  You were so quiet during dinner I was beginning to wonder."

Flirtation.  Right.  He could do this.

Will took a deep inhale, calling to mind all the seductions he had witnessed at the Helmsley, both in the drawing room and up here, spending time in the presence of the greatest seducer in Baltimore.

Will smiled, willed it to fill his eyes, and when he looked up he could see Budge's interest pique.

"There's plenty I can do with my tongue," a slight pause.  Just like fly fishing, bait the hook then flick it away.  "If you'll let me."

Budge chuckled, his rich baritone rolled with the sound.

"Soon enough.  Hannibal, did you say there was coffee?"

"And dessert."

"Excellent."

When Will started to his feet the hand at his shoulder held him down.  He stayed perched precariously as Hannibal left and returned, and though he could hear the clink of settling china and smell the smokey tendrils of warm coffee, he forced himself to stay focused, to give Budge the attention he so clearly felt was his due.

"You look uncomfortable in those clothes, Will."

"My fault, I'm afraid.  I insisted he wear a suit, though it was too late to obtain one that fit properly."

The store Hannibal had taken Will to had done an incredible job fitting him on such short notice.  Will had never worn anything as nice as the suit Hannibal had insisted on paying for.  When he was a detective he usually went the discount-rack route, and this place, with it's bespoke tailors and squares of cloth samples to choose from, was a different level altogether.

"Please, let me,” Hannibal had said when it was time to pay for one of the few suits they had ready to purchase.  “I'm the one that sprung this dinner on you with such short notice.”

Will might have felt guilty but one look at the price tag had absolved those feelings quickly enough.  Besides, now that he knew the kind of money Hannibal was raking in on a regular basis, he knew the other man could afford the expense more than he could.

"Next time," Hannibal was assuring Budge.  "Will will be far more comfortable.  The suit I'm having made for him promises to be a fine piece of work."

This talk of a new suit was news to Will, but he knew better than to show his surprise.

"I look forward to it.  In the meantime," he let go of Will's shoulder so that he could awkwardly get to his feet.  "Why don't you take those clothes off?"

He didn't mean to, but Will found himself glancing across the table to Hannibal, though for what he wasn't sure.  Still, the other man didn't seemed to mind.  In fact, he looked like he expected it and gave a slight encouraging nod as he blew delicately into his steaming coffee.

The material of his jacket was smooth and surprisingly easy to slide off his shoulders with very little effort.  It felt strange to just drop the high end garment to the floor, but when he glanced at Hannibal the other man flickered his eyes down, a wordless communication, even as he raised his espresso cup to his mouth.  He loosened his grey tie, the color of a mountain top on a foggy morning, and let that flutter down too.  Budge watched, his face giving nothing away, as he took his fork to the mango tart Will had spent a good portion of the afternoon working on.

Will’s fingers stuttered slightly as they worked the buttons down his black shirt, but he managed to get them undone so that that, too, could slip to the floor.  The room wasn't cold, far from it, but standing in that lush, verdant dining room with his chest bared- the impassive attention of the two men on him as they savored dessert and coffee- made Will want nothing more than to wrap his arms around himself.  Instead he unbuckled his belt and let the leather strip hang limply at his hips.

Now he knew he had the full attention of both of the men.  

They still sat, blithely sipping coffee and tasting their tarts, but the weight of the very air had changed with their regard.  Will toed off his shoes and the air thickened with anticipation.  Emboldened, Will teased his fingers across the front of his slacks.  

It was exciting, to be so in control after flailing for so long all evening.  From becoming the audience to commanding an audience in his own right... 

He could see the appeal now and his cock twitched in interest for the first time in God only knew when.

"Will," Hannibal admonished and he realized he was still stroking the front of his pants and the tension had rendered the air as thick as a bayou’s.  Still, he didn't rush himself, unzipping his pants and stepping out of the material at a measured pace.  Will could see that, despite his stoic face, Hannibal was amused by his slow tease.

Naked, he stood in front of Budge and Hannibal and strangely enough he didn't feel shame or disgust.

He felt powerful.

Budge dabbed at his lips with his napkin and stood; politely, Hannibal followed suit.  Rounding the table, Hannibal's hand tapped Will’s shoulder approvingly before guiding him to his knees in front of Budge.  

It was the last time Hannibal touched Will for the rest of the evening.  

After that, his guest was the sole object of his considerable focus.  He unzipped Budge's pants from behind, releasing the straining erection to Will’s face and with a practiced hand rolled a condom on the proffered cock, and Will knew what he was meant to do.  Taking the thick length into his mouth, he worked Budge's cock with tongue and twisting fingers. Out of his peripheral vision he could see that Hannibal was alternating between stripping Budge of his fine suit, carefully laying each removed layer flat on the table so that it wouldn't wrinkle, and sharing deep, biting kisses with the other man. 

Soon Budge was as naked as Will, but Will just focused on his task.  He took the cock deep into his throat and Budge grabbed at his hair, gasping.

So Will did it again.

The fingers in Will's hair gripped tighter, and there was a shuffle of feet as Hannibal nudged the musician's stance wider, tipped his hips back just so.  Will sat back just long enough to watch Hannibal's sheathed length fuck his way into Budge's ass.  He crouched on his heels and could have easily watched the smooth hitches of Hannibal's hips for longer, but the fingers in his hair were pulling, insistent, and he took Budge's erection- flagging from the hard entry- and worked it back to straining fullness.

Hannibal set a pace as he fucked Budge, a firm insistent rhythm that Will matched: opening wide for the thrust in, sucking until his cheeks became sore for the thrust away.

"Good," Hannibal said, though whether his approval was for Will down on his knees or the man impaled on his cock it was hard to say.  All the same, Will felt that approval like a caress down his spine.  It left goosebumps in its wake and he kept time with Hannibal's hips.

Hannibal's strength was surprising, as he effortlessly held Budge's dead weight as he came.  Will stayed where he was, let Budge ride out the waves of pleasure as his jerking cock spilled into the latex sheath in Will's mouth.  As Budge caught his breath, head falling back onto Hannibal's shoulder, Will took care of removing the condom and tying it off.

He found himself pulled up by his shoulder from his place on the floor until he was eye level with Budge.  Long, elegant fingers wrapped around Will's throat and pulled him into a domineering kiss.  Will didn't fight it, just rode out the rhythm of Budge's tongue like he had his cock.  With his eyes open, Will could watch as Hannibal withdrew from Budge's body and he nearly laughed when it dawned on him that Hannibal was still impeccably dressed.

Hannibal must have noticed Will’s amusement because he smiled as he expertly tied off his own condom.

Will let his eyes flutter closed as he continued to kiss Budge. He felt brushes of fingers and the whisper of moving fabric against his bare skin as Hannibal guided Budge back into his suit. When he was finally released, Will was now the only naked one in the room once more.

“Will, if you wouldn’t mind clearing the table, I will see our guest out.”

Will nodded obediently, and gave only a passing consideration of his clothes- still bunched on the floor- before following Hannibal’s order. As he stepped into the kitchen, he could hear the murmur of voices at his back.

“-will do nicely-” 

“Thought you might-”

Will started the dishes as he waited for Hannibal to return. Why break with tradition now? When he did, he carried with him a thick, cream-colored envelop and the bunched pile of Will’s clothes.

Thanking him, Will slid on his pants, though he didn’t bother with buckling his belt or putting on his shirt. The envelop he slid into his back pocket. It seemed rude to count the money in front of Hannibal, and he didn’t was to offend the other man.

“Well?” Will asked, returning to the sink. “Was that about what you were expecting?”

Hannibal was silent for a long time. When Will looked over his shoulder there was a calculating air about the man. Finally Hannibal seemed to come to a decision. He stepped close to Will’s side. Taking a dry dishtowel in his hand, he rubbed at the wet plate Will handed him.

“What are your plans for tomorrow evening?”


	13. Chapter 13

"You sound happier," Abigail said, and her observation took Will by surprise.

Together they walked through the community garden two blocks away from the rehab center. It was incredibly chilly, Abigail's seeing cane upturned snow as it pattered across the ground, but Will knew she was relieved to get away for a little while. Will stopped to blow on his hands, rubbed them together to get the blood moving back into his tingling fingers.

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know," she said, her words painting the air before her with fog. "It's in your voice. It's like I can hear your smile. You didn't really do that so much before."

"I guess I am. Happier," and boy did that word sound strange coming from his lips. "I'm feeling more grounded, at least."

And wasn't that what it was? For all the ways Will'd tried to tether himself to something real and call it a life, as a cop and later consulting with the FBI, too quickly he’d find his moorings were made of sand; the harder he tried to tether himself, the more quickly it would fall right through his hands. But strangely, in Hannibal, he had found a solid hitch and he wanted nothing more than to cling to it with all his might.

After their night with Budge came more shared work, though whether that was from the client's genuine desire to have them both or whether it was a situation born of Hannibal's making was hard to say. Either way, Will wasn't about to question things too closely, not when his job had finally become bearable. Hannibal's clients were a cultured set, and Will found that as long as he dressed in the suits Hannibal continued to lay out for him and keep small talk to a minimum, he fared pretty well.

Abigail huffed, a puff of grey accompanied the sound, and Will looked at her closely.

“How about you?" Will asked.  "Are you any happier?”

She rolled her sightless eyes, a flash of sudden and intense annoyance, and Will could suddenly imagine the teenager she might have once been if not for all the violence that painted her world.

It made him sad to see; her biggest worry should be what to wear to school or studying for a test or whatever it was that teens thought about. Vampires. Instead here she was, walking a deserted garden in the height of December, in the company of her father’s murderer.

“Christmas is next week,” she finally blurted out.

Will had a vague recollection of Christmas carols over the radio on the cab ride over, some flashes of wreaths with red bows as they sped past.

“I don’t know if that’s something you usually do. Christmas.”

“Not usually, no,” Will admitted, unless he counted the fingers of whiskey he usually drank alone.

“Yeah, I figured,” Abigail said, stomping her feet so that snow cascaded across her boots. “Not sure how much of the religious thing I can take this year. Glory of God and all when everyone I love is dead and I’m...”

Her voice trailed off and she shook her head sharply.

“Whatever. I’m whatever I am. But, still, everyone at the center is on seasonal overload and I guess it’s just getting to me.”

He knew it was a terrible idea, even as he opened his mouth.

“If you want I could-” Will started. Could what? What could he possibly offer? “We could maybe do something together. I’m listed as your guardian, I’m sure I could sign you out for the day. We could figure out something to do.”

“As long as it gets me out of that place, I don’t care where we go.”

They walked back to the center soon after that- Abigail insisted she wasn’t cold but Will knew that for the stalling tactic that it was. The truth was she was miserable after so many months stuck in rehab. He watched as she deftly maneuvered around a mailbox. Every time he visited, it seemed like she was able to do more and more for herself and Will knew it was only a matter of time before she was officially released. Then he’d have to figure out what to do with her.

But one problem at a time: first he needed to figure out Christmas.

As Will waited by the facility’s gate for the cab he called for he idly wondered how far along Hannibal was in preparing dinner. Although he had never asked about Will’s weekly disappearing act, Will knew it was hard to go unnoticed when he spent so much time at the other man’s side.

Pulling up his contacts list yielded a half dozen entries, which made it easy to dial Hannibal’s number.

“Will,” Hannibal said, as he answered the phone.

“Hey, I was wondering if you needed me to pick anything up for tonight while I’m out.”

A considering pause, though whether is was for his offer or that he had called at all was hard to say. Will shuffled his feet, trying to stay warm as he waited.

“I think I already have everything we need.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.”

“Though I wouldn’t say no to some assistance.”

At the end of the block, Will saw a flash of yellow as it turned onto the street he was on.

“I should be there in twenty minutes.”

“Then I will see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Will said as he held his hand out so that the driver could see where he was waiting.

“Oh and Will?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for your offer.”

Hannibal’s words sent something warm sliding between Will’s shoulder blades.

“No problem,” and thank God the other man couldn’t see his slight blush from over the phone. “I’ll see you in twenty.”

Dinner, as it turned out, was a simple affair.  Well, simple by Hannibal   
Lecter standards,which was still more effort than Will would ever normally put out for food.  A spicy Mexican shrimp and tortilla soup, which seemed like light fare until Will saw their guest.

She was a beautiful woman, tall and statuesque, her skin the color of cappuccino.  Her eyes were striking on their own, but the deep tired circles underneath them made them all the more alarming as did her cheekbones that seemed almost shockingly prominent.

"Phyllis," Hannibal called her and she gave a disdainful glance at the arm he offered.  Instead she walked with her head proudly high as she took her place at his table, unassisted.

Will noticed that Hannibal never asked how she was doing, which seemed like a huge breech in manners, but the proof of this woman's illness was in the spaces left bare by what wasn't said.

Phyllis also wore a wedding ring, he noticed, but that too was left unacknowledged.

She and Hannibal settled into an amiable conversation-  art exhibits and current political affairs- and Will felt his mind wander back to Abigail and the promise he had made her.  Maybe a trip to the movies or dinner at a restaurant? Though that didn't seem all that special.  Christmas was about family and togetherness, or so Will had heard.  His father was the whiskey kind, and maybe that was proof enough of the power of family when Will had continued that fine tradition himself over the years.

"Will," Hannibal chided, gaze down on his finished soup.  "You're being terribly rude to our guest."

Blinking, Will realized he had missed nearly all of dinner, he had been so lost in thought.

"Sorry," he said shaking his head, dispelling the last traces of introspection.  "I'm   
so sorry."

"You've barely touched your soup," Hannibal observed, and Will was surprised to realize he was right.

"I'm sorry," he said again, this time to Phyllis.  "I'm not the best conversationalist most days but today I'm feeling particularly... lost.  I guess."

"Don't worry.  I'm not at my best tonight either," Phyllis said and Will realized she, too, hadn't eaten much.  "Seems we make a sad excuse for a dinner party tonight.  I probably should have cancelled our appointment."

She traded a frank look with Hannibal as she said: "I wasn't ready to go home."

"Then you shan't.  Not until you are ready.". Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Hannibal pushed away from the table.  "Will, if you would go draw a bath, Phyllis and I will be there shortly."

He felt like a child sent away from the table for bad behavior.  Always before Hannibal had shown a gentle indulgence for Will and all his idiosyncrasies, and now that it wasn't there the absence of that indulgence felt like a slap.

He was careful to push his chair out quietly.  No need to look like he was pouting, not when Hannibal was in his full right to call Will out on his inattentiveness.

As he turned the bath's faucet to a temperature just a shade too warm- who knew how long the two of them would take and Will didn't want to prove inept any more tonight- he could hear the gentle patter of conversation from the dining room.  He couldn't make out the words over the running faucet and he didn't try.  Removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeves as the bathroom became warmer, Will watched as the mirror that took the better of the wall fogged over, hiding Will's reflection behind a screen of white.  The water poured out, filling the impossibly large basin, and he perched on the bathtub's lip idly skimming his fingers to check the temperature every now and then.

The voices had fallen silent by the time the water filled the bathtub, but Will stayed where he was.  He wondered if he had been forgotten about as the silence stretched on.

Will monitored the temperature with the fingers of one hand, topping it off as it began to cool. In the conspicuous silence he heard the breathy voice of a woman say "Oh."

Just once, and that was it.

A few minutes after that he could hear the soft thud of bare feet as they finally made their way to the bathroom.  Will found himself unconsciously sitting up a bit straighter as the doorknob turned.

Hannibal ushered Phyllis in, they both looked somewhat mussed and had changed into bathrobes.  Will stood, out of the way, as Hannibal touched Phyllis' cheek fondly.

"Will," Hannibal said without looking away from the woman before him, hands busy at the stay of her robe.  "I'm afraid the table still needs to be cleared.  If you wouldn't mind."

"Of course," he said and he caught the briefest glimpse of full breasts and lush nipples before Phyllis eased herself into the bath, sighing contentedly.

Will was alone again, this time in the kitchen, as he washed the dishes.  It was strange to be there without Hannibal’s companionable presence beside him. He worked slowly, letting his fingered prune as he scrubbed each bowel clean. Loneliness lurked in the silence of the kitchen, in the sad clinking of cutlery, and Will knew better than to let his imagination run free, but it was hard to contain when this was the alternative. 

A blink on darkness, a swing of a pendulum, and he was in a very different kitchen, one where he was just a shade away from too late. A pale face, terrified, and then there was the red of blood.

He hardly felt the recoil on his gun as it unloaded, riddling the man before him with bullets.

_See?_

“Will?” A gentle hand on his shoulder pulled him from his memory and he spun around, arms up to protect himself from the intruder.

“Easy there, I didn’t mean to startle you.” It was Phyllis, her hair and clothes rearranged so that she looked as unruffled as when she had first arrived. 

Will was embarrassed to find himself gasping for breath, heaving against the sudden rush of adrenaline. 

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he got out, the lie pushed out between one hurried breath and the next. “I’m fine.”

“Did you get lost again?” Will nodded and held still as Phyllis scrutinized him. “You look haunted.”

Will laughed, a rough, bitter sound. 

“You have no idea.”

Tentative, Phyllis reached out a hand to Will’s cheek and he closed his eyes as he turned into her soft touch. He could lie to himself that it was a show for her benefit, but the comfort he felt at the gesture was too intense. 

“Take care of yourself,” she stroked his hair. “I know what it’s like to be haunted by secrets. It’ll consume you, if you’re not careful.”

“I can try.” Grim smile as he looked up. 

“Well, let Hannibal take care of you, then, until you can do it for yourself. I just stopped in to tell you not to worry, about what happened this evening. It can’t be easy, doing what you do.”

“That’s sweet of you to say.”

Phyllis laughed. “Sweet. That isn’t the word that is commonly used to describe me. This cancer is making me soft.”

_Cancer,_ Will thought. _Shit._

“I’m so-” he started but she held up a hand, stopping his words. 

“You’ve already apologized enough tonight, no need to apologize over something that has nothing to do with you, too. I only came back here to make sure you were alright before I left.”

“I’m fine,” Will said and compared to cancer, he really had nothing to complain about. 

“It’s a shame it didn’t work out this evening for you and me. We’ll just have to try again some other time.”

“I’d like that,” Will said and strangely enough it was true. Impulsively he leaned over to kiss her plump lips and she laughed, a happy laugh this time, that made Will smile to hear it.

“Enough of that,” she said with a firm hand oh his shoulder, holding Will still. “I finally got myself presentable enough to head home.”  
“You’re beautiful.”

“That’s what my husband tells me,” Phyllis said wryly. “Now I’d better get back to him before he starts to worry.”

That night Will and Hannibal got ready for bed in silence. It wasn’t until the light was off and they had slid into their separate sides of the bed that Will was finally able to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said as Hannibal sighed and turned towards him. “The way I was at dinner, it was inexcusable.”

“Phyllis deserves better than to be ignored during her own appointment. What we do- the comfort we provide-”

“I get it,” Will interrupted. 

“I’d like to think I’m not making a mistake, sharing my work with you.”

“You’re not. I got lost in my head, it happens sometimes, but I’ll try not to let it affect our work again. What you’ve done for me-”

Will couldn’t finish that thought, it was too unbearably revealing. 

_You saved me,_ Will could only think and wish he were a braver man to give voice to his thoughts.

The bed shifted as Hannibal came closer until Will could feel the heat from the other man’s body tracing the lines of his own.

A hand crept across his waist, pulling him into a comforting embrace. 

“What has you so out of sorts?” 

“It’s a long story.”

“Will,” Hannibal warned, steel in his voice.

“There’s this girl...” Will tried to start.

“I see,” Hannibal said and even though he didn’t move Will could feel some part of him start to pull away.

“That’s not... Let me start again. It has to do with the work I did, before I came here. About the man I killed.”

“Oh?” Hannibal asked and Will felt the story pouring out of him. Of Abigail and her disabilities, and before that her coma. Of shooting her father and holding her life’s blood between his fingers and the way that blood had branded him, of the promise he had made to keep her safe and to build a foundation for her. To provide a new life for her even if it rendered his own into so much rubble. 

He told Hannibal all of it, or as much as he could.

He didn’t tell her _who_ Abigail’s father was. It wasn’t his place to. 

If Hannibal had any questions- if he noticed any holes in the story Will told- he kept them to himself.

“Now she wants Christmas, and I can’t not do something for her. But I’m afraid what she wants, what she’s looking for, is something I’m not capable of providing for her.”

Hannibal was silent and Will could practically hear his thoughts as they turned over.

“I already have an appointment for Christmas.”

Will was confused. “I’m sure you do.”

“I’ll see what arrangements can be made, but I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t bring Abigail here.”

“Here?” Will asked, dumbfounded.

“We can prepare dinner together, the three of us. I don’t see why we can’t provide a semblance of family for your Abigail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably going to be the last chapter for a little while as I head into November and the great beyond that is NaNoWriMo. I'll see you in December ;-)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient! We are in the home stretch, now!

Will can’t remember the last time he’d actively looked forward to Christmas. As a cop, the date was only significant in the uptick in suicides, which was something he could all-too-easily empathize with. He certainly hadn’t looked forward to it as a teenager, watching that god-awful yule log on television while his father steadily worked his way through a bottle of whiskey. Maybe as a boy, before his mother left, but even that was a guess at best. All his recollections of that time were bleached by the sun and filled with an unbearable lightness of being. Whitewashed in his memories, thinking back to his childhood brought him neither comfort nor pain so he had learned long ago to leave his memories be. 

Let sleeping dogs lie and all that.

This year, though, he stood back and watched as a pine tree, so tall and plush it took three delivery men to wrestle, was coaxed into a tree stand in Hannibal’s library-come-living room. Muddy footprints and wayward pine needles lay in a snowdrift-thick layer across the once- slate grey area rug. 

Hannibal was nowhere to be found. 

When the men were done, Will showed them the door and handed a man whose shirt was embroidered with the name “Tony” the spare bills he had folded in his pocket. The way “Tony”’s eyes lit up made Will remember suddenly he carried a lot more cash than he usually did these days, and that the tip was probably far more generous than Emily Post would deem appropriate but fuck it. 

It was the holidays and Will was starting to feel that elusive holiday spirit. 

Coming back into the room he had just left, Will was treated to a rare sight: Hannibal Lecter on his knees. Will stopped where he was and felt a strange lurch in his chest. 

Surprise, he coached himself, that feeling is just surprise. Nothing else. 

Even in the private confines of his own mind, that excuse was wearing thin. 

“You know there are people here that will do that for you,” Will said, trying for a flippant tone as he watched Hannibal sweep pine needles into a small dustpan. “du Maurier employs legions of housekeepers."

Slight smile from Hannibal. "Yes. I'd heard rumors."

"But you won't call downstairs for help. You never do. Why is that?"

Will can feel Hannibal's attention slid away from him and back to the task at hand. Without Hannibal's regard, something akin to loneliness came over Will. It was disconcerting; Will had never been one to shy away from solitude. In fact, he generally preferred it, though lately he had begun to feel a distant _lack_ of something, someone, whenever he was left to his own thoughts.

"I prefer to do it myself. There should still be some mysteries between us, don't you think?"

 _Fair enough,_ Will thought. He certainly wasn't one to cast stones about keeping secrets.

"Here," Will said, dropping so that he was kneeling beside Hannibal, taking the dustpan from his hands. "Let me."

"I can assure you," Hannibal started and Will didn't have to look for the amused quirk on the other man's lips, by now he could hear and differentiate the different degrees of amusement in Hannibal's arsenal. "While I might not spend as much time on my knees anymore, I have quite a bit of experience on them."

"Yeah," Will agreed as he grabbed for the brush and shooed Hannibal away. "But I'm better at it."

Hands raised in surrender, Hannibal laughed as he retreated from the room, leaving Will to gather the pine needles and dab a soapy rag against the mud and grime in the rug's fibers. When Hannibal returned it was with a collection of cardboard boxes, each holding half a dozen ornaments, sparkling with newness.

"I thought perhaps Abigail might enjoy trimming the tree herself."

When Will hesitated Hannibal continued. "It might be empowering for her to aid in a task that she has probably given up as impossible with her impairment."

"Maybe," Will said vaguely, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. As much as he wanted to provide for Abigail, it made him nervous anytime he thought he was inserting himself as a surrogate for her dead father and something about trimming a Christmas tree stank of family tradition. It was not his place, he of all people, to presume even though Abigail seemed eager to let him.

"Thank you for all of this," he said, nodding to the artfully arranged candles, the tasteful wreaths, the silver and white decorations that had found their way throughout Hannibal's rooms one day when Will had been out. "But it really wasn't necessary. I'm not big on Christmas and Abigail—" 

Well, she wouldn't know one way or the other what the rooms looked like, though that seemed crass and somewhat disloyal to give voice to.

"I wouldn't have done it if it hadn't given me pleasure to do so," Hannibal said firmly.

"All the same. Thank you."

A warm hand found its way to the top of Will's head, stroking the thick darkness of his hair. The gesture was fond and Will couldn't bring himself to look up even though the touch filled him with the warmth of a summer's day.

"You are very welcome."

It wasn't until later— hours later— when Will caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror that he realized he was still smiling.

Christmas morning found Will pulling in to the Center's driveway, the fine car navigating easily over the iced-over asphalt. He had only just put the car in park when the main door opened and there was Abigail: already bundled against the cold with a white and red cane in hand.

Will called out to her and watched as a sunny smile blossomed against the paleness of her face.

"Diane at the front desk said she thought that was you," she said as he made his way to her side. He placed her hand on his arm and led her to the waiting car.

"Excited?"

"You have no idea," she said, voice cheerfully grim as she eased into the leather of the car's passenger seat.

"Smells nice," she commented,sniffing the air. "Like a new car. An expensive new car. Is it yours?"

"It's a friend's," Will said and was a little surprised to feel the sting of a blush at the admission.

"Is this the same friend we're spending Christmas with," Abigail asked, thankfully unaware of Will's unexpected embarrassment.

"Yes," he managed to say evenly and slid the car into traffic. When he glanced over he could see Abigail running her hand across the supple leather of the seat, something clearly troubling her. 

"He doesn't mind that I'm crashing his Christmas?"

Will smiled, glad that he could say with perfect honesty: "It was his idea."

It was with nervous hands that he turned into the driveway of the brothel, and he hustled Abigail to the house even though there didn't seem to be anyone about at 10am on Christmas Day. All the same, he had never been so grateful for the private entrance to Hannibal's floor, discretely located by an unassuming oak tree, now leafless and dusted with snow.

It was a strange, circuitous path that had led to this moment, Will reflected as he opened the door with his own key and carefully led Abigail up the stairs to the third floor. Here they were— a middle class teenager, a cop with crippling empathy, and the most exclusive companion in Baltimore— coming together after too many impossible twists of fate to spend the day in each other's company.

But as he watched delight blossom across Abigail's face as she smelled the distinct, earthy scent of the fir tree, he was glad that they had.

"A real tree," she exclaimed, carefully tapping her cane until she could reach out a tentative hand to stroke the needles. "The center put up a fake one, but this is so much better. I don't feel any ornaments."

Will shrugged off his coat. "Hannibal thought you might like doing that yourself."

A sweet, serene smile. "I'd like that," and she looked years longer, the tragedies she had suffered, all the death and guilt that was written in dark lines across her face, lifted. "So where is this mysterious friend of yours?"

In the kitchen, as it turned out. When he heard their entrance he straightened from his task dicing onions and wiped his hands clean on a nearby dishtowel.

"You must be Abigail," Hannibal said, meeting her halfway, settling a friendly hand on her shoulder. "I've heard so much about you."

Abigail tensed at that, like a doe at the sound of a hunter's boot in the underbrush, but it was only for a moment.

"I wish I could say the same," she said tartly. "All I know about you is that you have a ridiculously nice car and too many stairs up to your apartment."

"Abigail," Will said, a parent's embarrassment in his sharp tone but Hannibal just laughed.

"The scales do seem to be tipped in my favor, I'm afraid. But here, let me take your coat. Make yourself comfortable. And we will see what secrets you may be able to coax out of me."

It was nice, watching Hannibal fuss over Abigail, sitting her on a stool Will had never seen before that just happened to be the exact right height to help Hannibal as he returned to the onions on the island counter. Still, he had a moment of worry when Abigail was handed a gleaming knife that Will knew from experience was wickedly sharp.

"We are making Will nervous," Hannibal observed conspiratorially in a theatrical whisper.

"Relax, Will," Abigail said as she brought that unforgiving blade down. "My occupational therapist has been working with me on cooking for like a month. I've only cut myself like every _other_ session."

Abigail might not have been able to see Will roll his eyes but she cackled in amusement as if she had.

She wasn't lying when she said she had been working with her therapist— her hands were steady and sure as she chopped and diced whatever Hannibal placed before her. Will's instinct was to hover as she worked, making sure there were no accidents, but Hannibal gently pushed him aside, asking him to peel potatoes. Reluctantly he went to the sink and the waiting colander he found there. With his back turned, Will kept a careful ear for any sounds of injury or dismemberment but all he heard was the bright sounds of conversation. Hannibal's skill as a conversationalist was evident as for hours he and Abigail talked with no hint of awkwardness. He skillfully maneuvered the minefield which was Abigail's family history until she was cheerfully telling anecdotes about her mother, her childhood, her recovery. Gone was the hovering specter of her father, instead Hannibal focused on the happy memories, the easy stories, and Will was glad to listen as he performed whatever tasks around the kitchen he was bided to.

Hours passed, in that time they ate a casual lunch, still working toward the feast that would be dinner. Finally, Hannibal surveyed their work, giving the simmering pots on the stove a considering stir.

"There isn't much left to do here but wait. Why don't you and Will go trim the tree while I make sure nothing burns."

Will was used to obeying the nudge of Hannibal's directives and after a day in his kitchen, it seemed Abigail was as well.

"I like him," Abigail announced when she and Will were alone by the tree.

"Oh yeah?" Will asked, handing her a gold ornament.

"Yeah," she said, feeling amongst the boughs for a place to hang the sparkling globe. "I was feeling kind of neglected there for a while, feeling sorry for myself, but now I get it."

"You do?" Will asked, confused. 

"Yeah. I mean, I didn't realize you were- not that it matters- but he seems nice and like he likes you and I think he likes me too—"

"I'm sure he does," Will agreed, still trying to follow the line of conversation that had taken a wild detour somewhere between the kitchen and the library.

"So I don't see any reason we can't all make this work out."

"Make what work out?"

"The three of us. Me, you, and your boyfriend."

"Oh!" Will said, surprised. "Hannibal isn't my—"

"—sorry, I mean partner or whatever you call—"

"—Nothing like that—"

"— each other. But I guess I'm saying I think it could work out. Us all living together."

Will wasn't sure how to even begin to sort out his relationship with Hannibal, much less do it in a way to gently let down the girl who had been through so much. 

Which was, of course, when the doorbell rang. 

At the sound both Will and Abigail froze. If Will was worried that whoever was on the other side of the door would destroy the carefully crafted mirage of a family they had spent all day building, Abigail's face showed she was just as trepidatious. 

"I'll see who that is," Hannibal said, startling Will who hadn't heard his soft foot fall enter the room. He deftly untied the apron around his hips and Will wordlessly nodded.

In the quiet they could hear snatches of conversation between Hannibal and a woman Will didn't recognize.

"I apologize for the confusion but I left a message—"

"—Just got into town, must have missed— our appointment—"

"I'm afraid that is quite impossible—"

"— expect me to do?"

And finally Hannibal's firm: "I will see" and two pairs of footsteps on the stairs.

"Abigail," Will said, a hand on her shoulder pressing her firmly into motion. "Wait in the kitchen."

"But why—" she started but Will cut in sharply.

"Please."

It was a flash of wild, auburn curls that first met Will's anxious eyes, Hannibal's familiar ash blond pate following close behind their unexpected guest. He had a vague memory of having seen those curls before, from the vantage of the library's mezzanine. 

A regular of Hannibal's then, Will thought as a gorgeous face met his, a face with startlingly blue eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass. 

"Freddie Lounds," the woman offered along with a professional handshake and Will knew that name but couldn't quite place it. "You must be Will, I've been hearing great things about you." 

Her smile was sharp, and Will's heart jumped to see such blatant lust in her eyes with Abigail just in the other room. 

"There seems to be some confusion with my appointment," she was explaining. "I guess I was supposed to get some kind of message about a cancellation."

"This is simply not a good time," Hannibal explained.

"But I've come all this way," she said, hand slipping around to cup Will's ass and Will could tell this dominant woman was used to getting her way.

"I'm afraid—"

"Why can't she stay?" Cut in a voice and Will's heart stopped as all three of them turned to the young girl standing, unseeing, in the doorway. "We made plenty of food. It's Christmas, after all. And if she doesn't have anywhere to go she can just spend it with us."

Will fought instinct to look up into Hannibal's eyes and he could see the suggestion was just as surprising to him. Freddie was the first of their tableau to recover.

"That's, uh, awful sweet of you to offer," her words the sugary high pitch of an adult unused to speaking with anyone under twenty one.

"Then that's settled. We'll just add another setting to the table."

Hannibal gave a graceful shrug of his shoulders, sliding past Abigail to do just that.

From the kitchen he could hear Abigail's guileless voice trickling out: "What kind of appointment did she have, anyway?" as Freddie's body pressed intimately into his back. 

"Who's the kid," she breathed into his ear, chasing the words with a playful tongue and Will's gut churned anxiously.

This was not going to end well.


	15. Chapter 15

Will turned toward Freddie, hoping to force her to step back but instead she just leaned in even closer. 

“Ms. Lounds-“ Will started and her manicured hands slid down Will’s side, as if proprietarily stroking the flank of a pet. 

“It’s not every day you see a kid that young in a place like this. Now I don’t think she’s here as a pro-“

Will stiffened, anger coming swiftly at even the insinuation that Abigail could be one of du Maurier’s girls. 

“She’s not,” Will said.

“Then I can’t help but wonder why a girl that age, particularly a blind girl, is in Hannibal Lecter’s place, getting comfortable with Hannibal’s new toy.”

Will had only known Freddie for ten minutes, but she was swiftly becoming one of his least favorite people.

“I’m not his toy.“

“Sorry, his _friend_.”

“And she’s my daughter.” The word felt strange in his mouth, but it was as close to the truth that Freddie Lounds deserved.

“I see,” she said, as Will could practically hear her thoughts slotting themselves together in her head. “And does she know what it is her father does for a living?”

“No.”

“Does she even know she’s in a whorehouse?”

“No,” he repeated and this time could feel his anger deflate, as he realized with a sinking feeling that Lounds was the one with the upper hand in this situation.

“And I’m going to guess that’s something you’d prefer she didn’t find out.”

Will didn’t need to say anything to that, just stared ahead as Ms. Lounds stroked a finger across his jaw.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But you need to make it worth my while.”

“How?”

Lounds laughed, a bright sound. “Come on, you don’t need to look like you’re going to be sent in front of a firing squad. Just show me a good time, and I’ll be more than happy to keep my mouth shut. It shouldn’t be too hard; I’ve been hearing good things about you.”

“From whom?”

“I have my sources,” she whispered before pulling his mouth to hers and kissing him deeply. Will responded without thought, and she hummed her pleasure even as she pulled away. “The rumors may be true after all. Now come on, we’ve got a family dinner to attend.”

By the time they made it to the dining room, most of the dinner was already laid out and Abigail was sitting tall, waiting patiently for them to join her.

“Hannibal says he needs some help in the kitchen.”

Will watched as Lounds slid into a seat across from Abigail and hesitated.

“Go on, Will,” Lounds said, smiling at his obvious reluctance. “It’ll give us girls time to bond.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Will muttered, but went in search of Hannibal.

“I just want to be on record as saying that this is a terrible idea,” Will announced as he entered the kitchen.

“Then we are in agreement,” Hannibal said as he arranged the plate in front of him with a professional hand and an artist’s eye. 

“I told Lounds that I was Abigail’s father.”

Hannibal’s eyes never lifted from his work as he quirked an amused smile. “I told Abigail I was a psychiatrist and Ms. Lounds was a patient.”

“Great,” Will said, reaching for the open bottle of cooking wine and, ignoring the disapproving look Hannibal gave him, took a swig straight from the bottle. “That sounds about right.”

“Don’t worry,” Hannibal said as he arranged a fourth plate to match in appearance the other three. “Ms. Lounds will behave herself or she will be asked to leave. She knows how I feel about rudeness.”

“I think all Baltimore knows how you feel about rudeness,” Will muttered as he finished the cooking wine with one last gulp. 

“If you’re done drowning your sorrows,” Hannibal said, lifting two of the plates and inclining his head to the other two. Will obediently lifted them.

“A psychiatrist, huh?”

“Knowing Ms. Lounds as I do, it seemed fitting.”

Will looked the other man over from perfectly coiffed head to meticulously polished leather toe. In his dark suit he projected an air of competent intelligence, one that was echoed in the rigidity of his posture. Hannibal’s face was unreadable except for the barest gleam of mischief in his dark eyes.

“I could see you as a psychiatrist.”

“In another life, perhaps. Come, our guests are waiting.”

It would be a shame for Hannibal to have been a psychiatrist, Will mused over dinner. As good as he was at listening, he was even better at talking, easily smoothing over the awkwardness of dinner until conversation was flowing organically. 

“Long Island,” Lounds was saying, when Hannibal inquired from where she had just returned. “They think they’ve found the dumping ground for a serial killer out there. When I left there were ten bodies and counting.”

“Who do you write for, Miss Lounds?” Abigail asked politely and Will was pleased to see Lounds’ wince at the honorific. 

“ _Ms._ Lounds,” she corrected. “Or better yet, Freddie. And I work for Tattlecrime.com.”

Abigail set her fork down loud enough that the clang of it rang sharply through the room. “Oh?”

“Have you heard of it?” Hannibal asked, polite detachment in his voice.

“Yeah I might have logged on a couple times, read some things.”

Will touched Abigail’s hand. “Are you okay?”

It must have been a trick of the light that made her look so pale all of a sudden, because she smiled bright and unbothered. “Fine. Just a little tired; this is the longest I’ve spent away from the Center.”

“The Center?”

Abigail answered before Will could deflect. 

“My rehab. Not like alcohol or drugs or anything. For my injuries,” she waved toward her eyes. 

“So you weren’t born blind, then?”

“No. Something happened to me and I lost a lot of blood. Enough that the part of my brain that controls vision was starved for oxygen.”

Her voice was matter-of-fact, calm, but her hand was rubbing along the line of scarring at her throat. She didn’t seem to notice she was doing it, and Will couldn’t help but stare at the uneven skin. 

Remembering.

Blood gushing between his fingers.

Dark eyes as round as a doe’s in a startlingly white face.

_Do you see?_

“Is there anything they can do?” Lounds was asking, fascinated, and Will shook his head back to the present.

“There are theories. Some doctors believe they can train my brain to reroute the pathways that control sight. Neuroplasticity or something. They say that with enough time they can get me to see again.”

“You don’t sound like you believe that.”

“It’s not that. It’s just, if it’s a choice between years of therapy there or blindness in the real world now, I’d rather be home. You know?”

“It may not seem like it, but a few years isn’t so very long,” Hannibal said. “You’re young and time may seem like an insurmountable obstacle, but it will pass. If the doctors are correct, if they are able to restore your vision, it would be a tragedy to throw away the possibility of that future because you are too impatient in the present.”

“I guess,” Abigail said, unconvinced.

“Hannibal’s right,” Freddie said. “I’m sure your father wants you home as much as you want to be home, but if the doctors can help you…”

“My dad?” Abigail blinked, confused, shaking her head. “My dad is d-“

Will grabbed Abigail’s knee under the table and gave it a warning squeeze. She stopped talking, but not before piquing Lound’s interest.

“I’m sure your right, that I just need to be more patient with my recovery,” Abigail said, swiftly picking up the threads of conversation as if the lapse had never occurred. Will was glad she was as fast on the uptake as she was. “It’s what my doctors tell me and they’re, like, the best in the country. Better than any I could have gotten back in Minnesota.”

“Minnesota?” Hannibal inquired; calmly slicing into his lamb with a knife that was so sharp it sank into the meat easily. “Is that where you were born?”

“In Duluth; yeah.”

“That’s so funny,” Lounds said, eyes on her salad. “I was just there a few months back.”

“Oh?” Abigail asked but this time she didn’t sound polite. She sounded strangled, scared.

“I was covering a really bizarre case. The Minnesota Shrike. Have you heard of it?”

Will fell deadly still and he didn’t need to look over to see that Abigail had too. Lounds, for all that she was turned to her plate, was watching Abigail closely from behind her long, dark lashes. Hannibal was the only one that seemed unaffected by the turn in the conversation.

“The man that killed all those poor girls?” Hannibal asked, spearing a morsel with his fork and bringing it to his mouth. “Terrible, what happened to them.”

“That’s the one. You know, it was weird. There were rumors that he might have had an accomplice; the neighbors said it might have been his own daughter. But when I tried to follow up with the local PD, even my sources with the FBI, they all seemed keen to keep the case closed. Wouldn’t even tell me where I could find the daughter, much less whether or not she was a suspect.”

Abigail gripped her fork so hard her fingers turned white.

“What if she just didn’t want to be found?” 

“I guess she didn’t. It just seems like a shame, as much as the neighbors have been talking, what they’ve been saying. To hear them tell it, she might as well have killed those girls herself. I just wish I could talk to her, write up her side of the story. Clear her name, if she’s innocent.”

Abigail was quiet the rest of dinner and as soon as it was over she asked if she could go back to the Center.

“Headache,” she explained, face too-pale and her expression pinched. “It’ll go away, I just need to get some sleep.”

“Let me get the keys-“

“Look, no offense,” Abigail said, interrupting Will. “But do you think you could just call me a cab or something? I kind of want to just be by myself.”

“There’s some presents for you under the tree.”

She smiled wanly. “Rain check?”

Will waited with her by the back gate as the cab pulled up. Neither of them spoke, each engrossed in their own thoughts. As the headlights flashed across Abigail’s somber face, Will cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I wanted that to go better,” Will said, opening the car door before the driver could get out and do it himself.

Abigail’s face softened. Quick as a striking snake, she threw her arms around Will’s neck. The gesture was just as startling as it was sweet. 

“Thank you,” she said, voice muffled in his coat. “And tell Hannibal I said thank you.”

“Of course. You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

She nodded and he could feel the movement on his collarbone. Pulling away to settle back into the black vinyl seats, Abigail stared sightlessly past Will.

“I’ll call you,” she promised.

Watching as the cab disappeared into the night, Will let the cold, winter air seep into his too-light coat. When he turned he could see that the Helmsley’s windows were lit. From the other side of the house he could hear the sounds of cars and conversation as clients arrived and left; the bustle that had become so familiar to Will in only a few months’ time. To hear it, it sounded as if tonight was no different from any other night, despite what the calendar might claim. Will shook off whatever sentimentality still clung to his thoughts.

He trudged through the snow back to the entrance to Hannibal’s rooms.

There was still work to be done.

***

Lounds was inspecting the half-trimmed tree when Will finally made it up the stairs. 

Seeing her, the anger that had been simmering under his skin blossomed and there was so much he wanted to scream at her, but for all his fury all that came out was a rough, strangled: “Why?”

Lounds shrugged, as calm as Will wasn’t, which only fueled his ire. 

“I follow the story. It’s my job. Sometimes I have to chase after it, but it’s better if it falls into my lap. And this is a big story,”

She stepped closer, and Will stepped back. The temptation to hurt her was still too strong, the desire to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until he choked all the words out of her was too immediate. 

“The daughter of the Minnesota Shrike: tragically blinded and trying to rebuild a life for herself. The officer that killed her father- yes, now I know who you are, why you looked so familiar- The officer: moonlights as a whore.” The way she spoke, Will could practically taste the ink of the tabloid headlines. 

Lounds stepped forward, eyes bright at the prospect. Will stepped back, fists balled for her protection, until his back was against the bookcase ladder. “This is great stuff. I could get my byline on practically any newspaper in the country. Lifetime would be pounding down my door for the rights for some cheesy made for TV movie.”

With a horrible sinking feeling, Will knew she was right.

“But here’s the thing. No matter how good a scoop this is, there are still so many unanswered questions. I could guess, we could all guess, but without you and Abigail’s cooperation, it’s all just guessing. But if, say, you’d let me interview the two of you. If instead of guessing you helped me write a book, we could all make a healthy profit off this turn of events.”

“Abigail-“

“You don’t need to worry about protecting her. Abigail’s a big girl. She can handle it. In fact, it might be exactly what she needs to clear her name of suspicion once and for all.”

From out of seemingly nowhere Lounds produced a card embossed with her contact information.

“You think about it,” she said, slipping the card into Will’s back pocket. Her hand lingered there as she squeezed. “Now that that’s taken care of, you promised me a good time.”

Will barked out a laugh. “Are you kidding me? After how upset you made Abigail?”

“I didn’t say anything about you turning tricks, and I believe that was the original agreement.”

Wrapping her fingers around Will’s wrists, Lounds lifted them until he could grip high on the ladder’s rungs. She stepped back as Will was stretched long and on display. 

“I bet you’d look great tied up,” she mused. “Maybe next time. Right now I’m more interested in that mouth of yours.”

“Why not have both?” Hannibal asked and Will startled at his voice. 

_How long had he been there?_

“Though if that’s what you’d want, I would suggest we retire to someplace more comfortable.”

He held out his hand and Lounds was only too eager to take it. 

“Come along, Will,” Hannibal instructed as he lightly pulled Lounds through the hallway to his bedroom. 

Will followed, obedient and silent.


	16. Chapter 16

Freddie Lounds was a voyeur. Like most of Will’s revelations he was not altogether sure what the tip off was, but as Hannibal snapped cold metal cuffs around his wrist, Will's understanding of Lound's proclivities click into place.

Under the guise of a kiss to his temples Hannibal's lips touch Will's ear.

"Same safe word as before?"

Will nodded, nervous suddenly for what Hannibal had in mind.  Though Will was sure he had his professional mask firmly in place, smooth as a stone and just as unreadable, Hannibal took a second pass at his ear.

"Trust me," he soothed with a hand brushing across Will's chest, turning just enough to give Lounds a clear view from where she sat on the edge of the bed. 

Impulsively, Will twisted until he could reach Hannibal's mouth with his own. He kissed Hannibal, tongue messy and amateurish; theater for Lounds’ benefit.

"Of course," Will murmured, low. 

Fingers brushed fondly across the jutting bones of Will's naked hips, familiar and friendly, even as his other hand came up to pull at Will's hair and yank his head to an angle that forces tears to Will’s eyes.  

From the bed came the sound of Lounds breathing, loud with anticipation.  

Will made a show of struggling, pandering to their guest, even as he sank trustingly into Hannibal's body, the fine cloth of the other man’s suit felt almost decadent against his bare skin.  It occurred to him suddenly that it was the most intimate contact he had ever had with Hannibal during a session.  Usually they worked in tandem, point and counterpoint, as their client writhed between them.  

This time was different.  Will could smell it in the air, twisting with the scent of sex and clean linens.  He could feel it in the press of skin against his skin, the warmth of that surprisingly strong body as it manhandled him to his knees between Lounds' thighs.

From where he knelt Will could see Lounds' eyes were dark, eager.  Her excitement rose from her skin like a perfume, nipples rosy and pointed, cheeks flushed.  As angry as Will still was at her, at her words and insinuations at dinner and the withdrawn shadow Abigail had become at hearing them, still he had to grudgingly admit she was a beautiful woman.  

Lounds smirked as if she could hear his thoughts and maybe she could. In her line of work it probably helped to be able to read people. 

Well, Lounds wasn’t the only one with that ability, he thought as he brought his lips to graze lightly across the soft flesh of her inner thigh, to trace the curved bones of her knees.  He made a show of it, concentrating less on the sensations he was creating than on the images he was making- lips pressed to skin, tongue lapping long lines toward that warm and welcoming apex.  With one slim pale leg on his shoulder, Will pressed his lips briefly to her popliteal artery and he could feel the rush of blood against his mouth, pumping in fervent time with her heart.  

Lounds smiled, wide and catlike, as she hooked her leg around Will's shoulder and pulled him in toward her.

He stumbled slightly, his hands still locked tightly behind his back, but strong hands caught him, positioning him, before disappearing again.   
   
It had been a long time since Will had gone down on a woman, years probably.   

Certainly not since he had started at the Helmsley.  

Tongue flicking experimentally, he traced his tongue across Lound's clit, darting into her yielding heat, and soon he was pulling gasps of pleasure from her.  Settling in, he let his mind drift off as his mouth continued its ministrations as Lounds' well manicured hands settled into his hair and pulling sharply whenever he got an angle just right.

It was too easy to fall into himself, to escape into his mind’s world, but he had promised Hannibal that it wouldn’t happen again. So Will blinked, forcing himself to concentrate on the here and now. Eyes flickering to Lounds’ face he saw that her eyes were dark and excited, looking at something just over Will’s shoulder, a faint blush staining her cheeks. An anticipatory thrill blossomed in his stomach and he hoped, almost irrationally, that Hannibal would touch him again.

A strong hand held his wrists down, the metal of the cuffs cutting into the vulnerable skin of the small of his back. It was all the warning he got before a finger- thick and slick- slid into his ass. 

“Fuck,” Will said, startled, and Lounds’ groan echoed his sentiment, more moved by his penetration than her own. 

Oh yeah, most definitely a voyeur. 

One finger became two, stretching and preparing. Now that Will knew the game, he made a show of it, pushing back into each intrusion. Lounds leaned closer, started to get up, no doubt for a better look, but Hannibal must have made some move because she stopped. She tilted her head, considering, as auburn curls spilled to the side, a curtain against her pale shoulder. Will started to turn his head, curious to see Hannibal’s intent, but Lounds’ hand in his hair jerked his head back to her like a dog brought to heel. 

Hannibal took the metal at Will’s wrists in hand, pulling him up until he was on his knees and flush against the other man’s body. This time his skin pressed against naked skin. He could feel his heart jolt sharply at the intimacy of that contact, his bound hands trapped between them. Will’s fingers were just able to reach the thickness of Hannibal’s cock and it was instinctual to brush the jutting heat with an inquisitive fingertip.

Lounds moved up the bed until she was reclining against the thick mound of pillows, ringlets surrounded her head like the corona of a sun. 

“Closer,” she commanded, crooking her finger, and the next thing Will knew was the press of the cool sheets against his face as he was pushed prone into the mattress. The bed dipped as Hannibal followed, but when Will moved to make room, his head was pushed into the bed with surprising strength by Freddie’s dainty hand. Every breathe became trapped in the silk of the sheets, clinging humidly to his face, becoming hotter and more claustrophobic by the moment. 

Will’s heart was pounding now, adrenaline released, but he fought the instinct to either fight off the attack or run. 

He trusted Hannibal. Even blind, naked, half-suffocated, and bound; still he trusted Hannibal. 

“Nice,” Lounds complimented, as he willed his muscles to relax, to succumb to whatever would happen next. 

Nails, manicured to biting points, raked Will’s spine down to the swell of his ass as the bed shifted again. Knees knocked against his thighs, spreading his legs wide, and his heart skipped a beat before pounding double time. 

He knew- intellectually knew- that this was just another way to trick. He knew that Hannibal was performing for the benefit of Freddie Lounds That everything he did, he did for his client. Just as he had bathed Phyllis and created a sumptuous feast for Budge, fucking Will was a way to please Lounds, and that was all there was to it. 

Still, though, Will couldn’t stop the shiver of excitement at it raced across his skin when he felt the first press of Hannibal’s erection against his spread ass. Cock twitching, filling with blood, he forgot about his audience. Instead he closed his eye tight against the push of penetration and gave himself over to the unbearable excitement of having Hannibal inside him- finally, god finally- inside him for the first time. 

***

“You were great,” Lounds said, as Hannibal left in search of the key to the handcuffs. “Worth the hype, I’d say.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Will said solicitously enough, through he had the feeling the touch of sarcasm was not lost on someone as sharp as Lounds. 

She laughed as she dexterously clipped her bra around her chest. 

“Don’t be so bitter. I got off. You got off,” she said, eyeing the wet spot on the sheets. “I’d say it was a rousing success, all things considered.” 

The orgasm had taken Will by surprise- he didn’t know the last time he had come so readily, so willingly, and as amazing as it had felt at the time, he could feel the endorphins leaching away the longer he spent in Lounds’ company. 

“All things considered,” he agreed with a murmur. Lounds laughed again just as her pants began to vibrate. She whistled, low and impressed, as she checked her phone.

“Four dead in Christmas dinner spree killing.”

“You sound like a headline,” Will noted, distaste coloring his words.

“Some days the criminals just do the work for me,” Lounds replied merrily. “God I love my job.”

“It does seem to suit you,” Will said, and it wasn’t a compliment.

“Speaking of,” she said, turning back to Will. “Yours doesn’t. As much as I appreciate your effort- and believe me, I do- there are better ways to make money. Easier, too.”

“I’m not giving you Abigail Hobbs,” Will said, voice even and lethal.

“Shame. We could both be rich.” Her phone buzzed again, impatient, and her eyes flicked across the glowing screen as she took in the information she was receiving. “Think about it. You have my card.”

She swooped in to give him a kiss that was equal parts rough and familiar. 

“I’ll give Jack Crawford your regards, Mr. Graham.”

Will jolted when he heard Jack’s name, the back of his neck became cold in shock, and Lounds smiled brightly as the barb landed exactly as she had meant it to.

“I took the liberty of sending out some inquiries while we were otherwise occupied,” Lounds said, waving her cell at Will. “Don’t look so surprised. I think you find’ll that where Hannibal’s clients are concerned, it’s a shockingly small world. If I had a less suspicious mind, I’d be tempted to call all of this- a former police officer, the daughter of the Minnesota Shrike, and a crime journalist all under one roof- a coincidence.”

“Isn’t it?” Will demanded.

Lounds smiled, sad and pitying as she slid into the last of her clothes. 

“There is no such thing as coincidence where Hannibal Lecter is concerned. Death and those whose jobs it is to wade through it always seem to somehow coalesce at his bedroom door.” 

Will could hear Hannibal’s soft tread as it approached. Most times the other man moved as silently as a shadow, and as much as Will wanted to believe he was simply more attuned to Hannibal’s presence, Lounds’ warning made him wonder if they weren’t being given a warning to wrap up their conversation. 

Lounds must have heard it to, because she leaned in close to Will’s ear. If his hands weren’t bound behind him he would have shoved her away, but as it was he stood tall and still, as if that could repel her parting words.

“I never go anywhere without my phone. My phone is my livelihood, my life. If Hannibal really did cancel my appointment, I would have gotten the message.”

The doorknob turned, and Will wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not.

“Hannibal wanted me here tonight. You keep that in mind.”

With a patronizing pat to his head, Lounds finally left, leaving confusion and the first stirrings of doubt in her wake.


	17. Chapter 17

In the weeks following Christmas, the rhythms of Will’s life didn’t change significantly. He still made time to visit Abigail twice a week, he still worked with Hannibal and his clients at night. And no matter how much he might have wished it, Hannibal’s raison d'être didn’t waiver from putting his clients’ needs and comfort above all else. It was an admirable work ethic, Will had to admit, though the longing to have the other man alone, to have him touch Will with lust of his own volition, was starting to make his skin feel like it was two sizes too small. 

It was pathetic to admit that as much as he loathed Freddie Lounds- and as much as that loathing grew every time she mentioned Abigail and the proposed book deal- he began to look forward to her appointments. 

It was, after all, the only time Hannibal Lecter would fuck him. 

“How is Abigail?” Hannibal asked one morning after a particularly late night with Lounds. He spread a thin layer of batter across a hot skillet, the beginnings of a crepe. It wasn’t the first time since meeting her that he had inquired after Abigail, but it was the first time Will wasn’t quite sure how to answer.

Will considered the question as he sliced an orange. 

“She’s backsliding,” Will admitted finally, watching the citrus’ pulp become mashed and mangled as he twisted the half around a manual juicer. He was morbid enough to let his mind draw the obvious comparisons with the jumper cases he had worked, once upon a time in the PD. “Last time I was there she was back in the wheelchair. I don’t know, the doctors don’t seem too upset, but I’m worried. She’s become disaffected since Christmas; she barely says two words to me whenever I come to visit.” 

“Sounds like she is acting like a typical teenager.”

“If there’s one thing Abigail does not have the luxury of being is typical.”

With a precise hand, Hannibal flipped the cooked crepe on to a waiting plate and proceeded to make the next. 

“Perhaps she is feeling disconnected from the world after being in that rehabilitation center for so long? Is it so strange that after her first brush with freedom since starting therapy she is beginning to resent it?”

“Don’t you start too,” Will said, grumbling to himself. “If I could take her, I would.”

Hannibal raised his hands, placating. “I agree with you; the Helmsley is no place for a girl her age. And I would miss your company, I think, were you to leave here altogether.”

Will didn’t look up from the orange he was juicing, but he couldn’t help the small tug of a smile that Hannibal’s words produced. 

“No, I was thinking that perhaps she would benefit from having more visitors.”

The smile disappeared, and Will’s face became dangerously still. 

“If you think I’m going to let Lounds-”

“Of course not,” Hannibal interrupted. “But she does make a good point; no doubt Abigail could use someone to talk to. Someone who isn’t a part of her past or her recovery effort.”

“I guess.”

“I was thinking I might visit Abigail myself.”

Relief was like the first gulp of fresh air after being submerged for too long. Will could feel something tight in his chest loosen at the suggestion, but it felt too immediate, too raw to put these feelings into words so he stayed silent and just tried to relearn how to breathe.

“She and I got along well, I thought,” Hannibal continued, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain. “I hope I am not offending you with my suggestion.

Will knew he should say something, that his silence was being misinterpreted as disapproval, but he couldn’t. It was too much- the feelings he refused to name that he felt for the other man gathering force, the memory of Hannibal moving inside him the night before- it was all too much.

“I know I’m not what one would consider a role model, but-”

To hear these doubts coming from a man that never doubted himself was the tipping point for Will. Before he could talk himself out of it, Will took Hannibal’s sculpted cheeks between his juice- and- pulp- stained hands and gave him a short, grateful kiss that was almost embarrassingly chaste.

“I think she’d like that,” he said in a voice so soft and shy Will almost didn’t recognize it as himself.

And, as it turned out, she did.

Abigail’s room, once so painfully bare, began to show the influences of her new visitor. With every visit Will made to the rehabilitation center, he came upon something else that was undeniably Lecter-ian in origin. An oil painting, some benign outdoor scene depicting a forest at dusk, adorned a wall, while a plaster vase half-crumbling with age stood proudly on the utilitarian, Center-issued night stand. The wheelchair that had worried Will not so long ago, was relegated to a corner, now a make-shift bookcase for a stack of fine, leather-bound books. 

“Hannibal says when the weather gets nicer he’s going to take me to the symphony,” Abigail says, hastily adding: “Ifthat’sokaywithyou.”

Will smiled easily. It was sort of nice to know that the two people who had, through chance and circumstance, become the most important in his life had a relationship of their very own. 

“That sounds like fun.”

“I didn’t think so, at first, but then he made me listen to some Rite of Spring thing. Hannibal says when people first heard it they rioted in the theater, it was that shocking.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Hannibal says it’s about this primitive ritual where they sacrifice this girl to some pagan gods, which sounds pretty dark to me. But Hannibal says it’s an important work, that even though it’s got this crazy dissonance thing going, that it sort of, like, symbolizes the beauty and ugliness of nature and the dichotomy between life and death and stuff.”

Will didn’t really have anything to contribute to the conversation- his musical tastes ran more toward the Hank Williams/ Johnny Cash end of the spectrum- but he was more than willing to sit and listen to her happy chatter. 

Even if he couldn’t fail to notice, with not a little amusement, that just about every sentence started with _Hannibal says_.

_I guess Hannibal was right,_ Will thought to himself on the drive home. Abigail seemed to be blossoming. Already she was back to walking on her own. Who knew how much more healing she would be able to do, now that she was under Hannibal’s tutelage? 

As the long winter faded away, Will could feel his mood slowly brightening, too, as the nights became shorter and the days became brighter. 

Of course, in the world of Will Graham, that meant it was only a matter of time before everything went to shit.

The warning came from Lounds, of all people. 

Will wasn’t used to getting phone calls, really Abigail was the only one who ever called, which is why he was surprised when the phone rang one afternoon and Hannibal’s eyebrows became drawn. Wordlessly he handed the line to Will. 

“Will, it’s Freddie.” Lounds sounded serious, her voice fast and no nonsense. “Listen I can’t talk long, I need to break this story before those Daily News bastards scoop me out of an exclusive.”

“What are you-”

“I know you don’t like me, and God knows I only put up with you for the sex, but I figured the decent thing to do was give you a heads up before Jack Crawford comes your way.”

Ice swept down Will’s back. “What’s going on, Lounds?”

“I’m at a crime scene not two blocks from Abigail’s rehabilitation place-”

“How do you know where-” Will started.

“Please, Will. It’s my job to know everything about everything.”

Will’s thoughts took a terrifying turn. “Is Abigail-” 

“She’s not dead, but I can’t say she’s fine. I’m standing here looking at a body and I swear to God if I didn’t know better, I’d say this girl was killed by the Minnesota Shrike.”

While everything in Will screamed at him to run to Abigail, to protect her, shield her from the fallout of this murder, he also knew Jack. So, instead, he thanked Lounds for the call, handed the phone back to Hannibal and went to change. 

He chose with unhurried care a collared, button down shirt and nice, pressed slacks. No suit jacket, no tie, but still an enormous step up from the ensembles he wore when he was a cop; these clothes embodied the easy, elegant restraint that had come to characterize his wardrobe.

Hannibal came into the bedroom as he was tucking in his shirt tails. He didn’t say anything, just studied Will in silence before turning toward his own clothes. A stunning dark suit with the faintest plaid pattern, a matching vest, an impeccable green silk tie. When he was done, Will smiled and smoothed an appreciative hand across his shoulders, helping to coax the fabric flat.

“Will I do?” Hannibal asked.

“Thank you,” Will said, and meant it. 

With their armor in place, Hannibal and Will went to wait out Jack’s arrival in silence.

***

Jack had a file in his hands when he followed Hannibal in to the library. 

Of course Will also took in the familiar beige coat, the still impressive largeness of his presence, just as he noted the new lines around Jack’s eyes, the exhausted pallor of his skin. 

But what Will was most focused on was the file in Jack’s hands.

“Abigail didn’t do it.”

If Jack was surprised, he didn’t show it. “Word travels fast.”

“Hannibal has contacts, so now I have contacts,” Will said and Jack at least had the grace to look uncomfortable at Will’s pointed reminder of his current occupation.

_Remember what you sent me here to become, Jack?_

“It doesn’t look good, Will.” Jack said, sitting across from Will, unprompted. Although Will had never seen Jack in this place before, the familiar way he sat was proof positive that he was no stranger to Hannibal’s rooms. “Abigail doesn’t have an alibi for the time of the murders. She’s been taking walks, hopping the fence when the nurses aren’t looking.”

“She’s blind, Jack,” Will said, voice scathing.

“That’s not what her doctors tell me.”

It’s a shock, and Will stiffened in his seat even as Hannibal walked to sit on his chair’s armrest. He settled his hand on Will’s shoulder, touching him like he’d done it a thousand times before. Which he had. 

Jack shifted in his chair at the display of intimacy.

“Her sight has been steadily recovering for the past month. Enough that she is comfortable enough to wander on her own. Look at the files, Will, and tell me what you see.”

Will ignored the file in Jack’s outstretched hand. “She’s still weak.”

“Then maybe she had an accomplice. Someone that had knowledge of her father’s crimes, that could replicate them down to the details we kept from the public.”

“Are you here for my help or a confession?”

“I’d take either,” Jack said, holding the file to Will again.

“Death isn’t my line of work anymore; sex is. So unless you’re here for that...”

“Don’t play games with me, Will. A girl is dead and unless you can give me a reason not to, I’m taking Abigail in for this.” Jack stood and set the file on the seat of his chair. “I’ll give you until tomorrow to make up your mind.”

“How is Phyllis,” Will could hear Hannibal ask as he ushered Jack to the door.

“It’s cancer, you bastard. And don’t think I didn’t notice that you never warned me.”

“I urged her to tell you, but she insisted on keeping it from you.”

Phyllis. The name sounded familiar, until Will finally remembered: A meal, a bath, and a woman with that same to-the-bone exhaustion that Jack was wearing.

So Phyllis was Jack’s wife. Lounds was right, there didn’t seem to be much by way of coincidence, where Hannibal Lecter was concerned.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you hadn't seen my earlier note, I added a bit more to the end of the previous chapter. I'd recommend reading that before going into this chapter. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it was bothering me that chapter 17 was so short.
> 
> Also, Happy Hannibal Renewal Day, everyone!! Here's to a season three filled with just as much gorgeous mind fuckery as the previous two!

“Do we have an appointment tonight?” Will asked. Jack had been gone for a few hours, but Will hadn’t moved.

“No,” Hannibal answered, and Will wasn’t sure if that meant one wasn’t scheduled, which would be unusual, or if Hannibal was planning on canceling when Will’s back was turned. Either way, it amounted to the same thing: too much time between now and tomorrow with nothing to think about but the file.

“I’m not going to look,” Will announced to Hannibal with challenge in his voice. 

“I didn’t say that you should.”

“Well,” Will deflated. “Then we’re in agreement.”

“Of course,” Hannibal said, musing. “We must hope, then, that the evidence the FBI finds doesn’t point to Abigail.”

“It won’t.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am.” Will said. “She didn’t kill anyone. She’s not capable of it: literally and metaphorically. They won’t find anything linking her to this crime.”

Will stood and paced around the room, careful not to look at the chair that Jack had sat in, where the file still lay, untouched. 

“Well, if there’s nothing for me to do up here, then I’ll just go downstairs tonight. Pick up some freelance work, so to speak.”

“Will.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t bring them up here. I still have a room downstairs.”

“Will.”

“I should probably check on it, make sure it doesn’t need to air out.”

“Will, please.” Hannibal stopped Will bodily and it took everything in Will’s power not to shove the other man away. 

“You don’t understand,” Will exclaimed, his voice ragged, like he he’d been shouting.

“I don’t,” Hannibal said, matching him in volume, eyes bright and pleading, so out of character that it brought Will up short. “It’s _Abigail_ , Will. Abigail. She needs your help.”

Will’s legs were suddenly unsteady and he slumped back into the armchair in the ensuing silence.

“The last time I went inside myself...” Will’s voice trailed off, his eyes distant and unseeing. 

“When you caught Abigail’s father,” Hannibal prompted, sitting on the armrest, just as he had when Jack was there. 

Will nodded. “It nearly broke me. I went so deep inside my mind, we were so desperate to find the killer of all those girls...” He shook his head. “I brought something back with me.”

“Nightmares.”

“Worse. Hallucinations. I couldn’t tell what was real anymore, what was in my head. I was unstable. Dangerous. What I did for Jack, what I did to catch Garrett Jacob Hobbs... I didn’t just look at a crime scene. I don’t just interpret the evidence. I-”

“What do you do, Will?”

“I _become_ the killers. I _became_ Garrett Jacob Hobbs.” 

That wasn’t it. 

Not quite. 

“His fantasies became mine, his kills were my triumphs. His trophies, my,” God, could he even admit this? To someone as refined as Hannibal? “He honored those girls. He honored them by-”

“What did he do, Will?”

“He ate them. What he didn’t use, he ate. I could taste them, I could taste his righteousness, his certitude.” 

“He was a cannibal,” Hannibal said, evenly. 

Will hung his head, “I can’t open myself up to that again. It took me more than a year to get over it. It took you-” 

He looked at his hands and there was the slightest tremble in them, so he buried them in his lap, squeezed with his thighs as hard as he could as if that could make them stop.

“It must be a terrible burden, to do what you do.”

“Yes,” Will whispered.

“And yet, because of it, you saved his next victims. Garrett Jacob Hobbs was a monster, and yet you stopped him before he could commit any more crimes. You saved Abigail. As terrible the burden, I can’t help but be glad for that. I can’t help but believe this burden of yours is also a wonderful gift.”

“It’s not a gift.”

“This fear is unlike you, Will. Since the first time I saw you, when you pushed that man out the window, you have been nothing but pure strength. Courageous, even. You have bore more than most men ever could and even if you’ve bent, you’ve never broken. As scared as you are, I know if you were to go into yourself again, it would not break you.” 

Hannibal lay his steady hand on top of Will’s thighs, where his shaking ones were trapped, and leaned in, earnest. “And if it bends you, I will be here to help ease you back into shape.”

It was an impressive speech, passionately given, and Will wasn’t sure what to say.

“Third time.”

“What?” Hannibal asked, confused.

“That was the third time you saw me. The first time I was in the yard. Naked. I saw you looking at me from that window.”

Hannibal’s mouth hovered open, the other man seemed torn between annoyance and amusement, though amusement seemed to be winning. Finally he groaned and covered his face with his hands, hiding the smile that he was fighting to suppress.

“I didn’t think you had seen me.”

Will huffed a laugh in answer. 

“Do you think you can help me?” Will asked cautiously. “Bring me back if I go too far again?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said, and Will nodded, believing him. 

When Will opened the file, flipped through the crime scene photos, it was about what he expected to see. The girl fit the MO: seventeen. Pale skin. Long, dark hair. 

“She looks like Abigail,” Hannibal noted, as he looked over Will’s shoulder.

“Abigail was her father’s Holy Grail. The one he was saving for last,” Will said, but even he could hear his voice was far away. His gaze darted across the photos, taking in what information they could before turning inward.

“Will? Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just-”

“Yes?”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

The familiar swing of the pendulum wiped his mind’s eye cleaned, cleared his mental palate, before repainting a new scene, but it had been a while. It wasn’t as easy as it once was. 

_“Do you see?” whispered Hobbs, eagerly._

_“I’m trying,” Will replied._

“I’m looking for someone. She has to be young, dark hair. It takes a while, but I have nothing but time and patience. It has to be just right.”

_There she was, walking with the absolute confidence of a teenager that no longer had a child’s fears of the dark, but had yet to learn the adult’s lessons of life’s capriciousness._

“I’m a meticulous man. I like things done just so.”

_She struggled, of course, but she was no match for the strength in my hands as it squeezed the life out of her._

“It’s not my first time killing, but it’s my first time trying to emulate another’s predilections. I’ve studied all I can of Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s work.”

_I sliced her open, revealing the glistening innards I hunger for._

“I have a healthy respect for information- a respect for the work of my fellow murderer- and I’ve gathered as much of it as I can to make this look as authentic as I possible. I use my surgical knowledge to precisely take the organs I desire.” 

_With anger, derision even, I mount her on the stag’s antlers._

“Still, for all my care, I can’t help but add in my own touches. Displaying her to be found, that is something more to my taste than Hobbs‘ but I’m not making a facsimile. I’m making a point.” 

_There she was, just as Jack found her. Just as the photos in the files captured her, speared on antlers and spread for the world to gawk at._

“This is my design.”

Surfacing was just as cumbersome as going under had been, and took more than a few shakes of Will’s head to clear the blood and ice cold flesh, until he was finally able to see Hannibal again. The other man had moved while Will had been following the footsteps of a killer. Now he was on his knees before Will’s chair so that the first thing Will was aware of were those dark eyes, boring into his own. 

“We should call Jack,” Will said, his voice was distant.

_The girl was pierced, run through by antlers again, but the vision changed, warped. A familiar kitchen, a familiar figure slumped against the cabinets._

“Come back to me, Will.”

_“Do you see?”_

“Will.”

_Gun drawn, Will stepped closer to Garrett Jacob Hobbs, close enough to feel the breath from his lips as he sighed a moment before death._

_“Do you see?”_

There were lips on his- too tangible, too hungry to be anything but real. It was pure instinct that made Will react, pulling the man on his knees before him higher, closer, just so. His tongue was insatiable as it chased the taste of Hannibal across his palate, finally savoring what until now had been but small, meager sips. Hannibal matched his passion kiss for kiss, grip for grip. 

Will wrapped his legs around Hannibal’s torso like a python, holding him still, all the better to be devoured. With unimaginable strength, Hannibal rose with Will still tight around him, kissing him, and carried Will down the hallway to his bed. 

They grappled until Hannibal finally was able to loosen Will’s hold enough to throw him onto the bed. Nimble fingers made quick work of his clothes before turning their attention to Will’s- who couldn’t do anything but writhe as Hannibal divested him of his clothes, pleading: “Now, please. Now.”

Will was naked in a matter of seconds, but even that was too long. 

“Please,” he hissed again, just as Hannibal’s strong hands- so strong, God, had Will ever realized?- pressed him into the mattress to take his cock into his mouth. At the first touch of Hannibal’s tongue to his shaft, Will’s back arched and he gasped, eyes and mouth wide.

Will had watched Hannibal do this to other men plenty of times. He’d always been impressed with the refinement of his performances, how carefully he calibrated his partners and drew out of them sounds of pleasure that seemed to even surprise them. 

This was no where near as elegant. There was no technique, no calibrations, instead this was pure _want_ that was a palpable force shivering from Hannibal’s mouth to Will’s flesh. It was like electricity, a shock every time Hannibal swallowed his cock even deeper. 

This was Hannibal unleashed, feral and fierce.

Will wrapped his hand in the other man’s hair and pulled _up_ , guiding that pink mouth until he could meet it with his own. Hannibal’s body was heavy and solid as it draped over Will’s. 

“Please,” Will said again, the only word he seemed to be capable of, but Hannibal smiled- dangerously pleased- as he intuited what it was Will wanted now. 

Will’s body was desperate for contact and while Hannibal kneeled to reach the bedside table, his arms and legs rubbed madly across the cool, satin sheets.

One finger was pushed inside of his ass, followed by a second and- with a wicked grin from Hannibal and a shout from Will- a third. Will was shivering, feverish now, to have Hannibal take him that the pull of his hamstrings as his ankles were pulled over Hannibal’s shoulders barely registered. 

Will matched Hannibal’s pace, thrust for thrust. His hips raised clear off the mattress to feel that moment when Hannibal’s pelvis met his buttocks, bottoming out. Hannibal beat out a punishing rhythm bereft of grace, a rhythm that was wholly animalistic.

When Will’s hands were wrestled to the bed, and held down, Will instinctively tried to pull out of the grip but he wasn’t going anywhere. The realization drew his balls up tight, on the edge of cumming. He was Hannibal’s, to do with as he wished, and Will was all too willing to stay there.

But Hannibal’s hips went still.

And it was an eternity with nothing but the movement of their chests, heaving together, slick with sweat. 

“What-”

“Too close,” Hannibal said, eyes tight.

Will’s chest blossomed with tenderness at the admission. To see Hannibal like this, fighting so desperately for the control Will had never seen him without, was to know that Hannibal was just as affected as he was.

“I want you to come on me,” Will said into Hannibal’s ear and it was like tapping a live wire. 

Hannibal lurched into action, as Will took the brunt of his desire. Staccato now, too fast, too much, until finally he pulled out. He had just enough time to wrestle the condom off before he came on Will’s stomach in long, milky stripes. 

Without thinking, Will reached down and ran his fingers through the warm slickness of it. His cock jumped, eager, as he closed his come-covered hand around it and squeezed. 

Propped over Will on his forearm, Hannibal panted as he ran his hand down Will’s stomach, testing the wetness there. Will groaned, pumped faster.

“You are magnificent,” Hannibal said into Will’s neck, and that was it. That was all it took for Will to finally let go. His own come slicked his hand and mixed with Hannibal’s. 

Taking his wrist in hand, Hannibal raised Will’s fingers to his mouth. Staring into Will’s eyes, he licked away the evidence of their pleasure, his gaze still tinged with an animal’s mindless heat.


	19. Chapter 19

Outside of Abigail’s rehabilitation was a mad house. As Hannibal’s car idled half a block away from the entrance, Will could see the news vans parked, the cameras primed to catch a glimpse of the girl Tattlecrime.com had billed as “Daddy’s Little Killer.” 

“How did you fair with Jack?” Hannibal asked, piercing the veil of silence that had enveloped the car nearly two hours ago. 

Will missed it, the silence. There was something reassuring about the cocoon, something like implied solidarity. Now that Hannibal was talking, Will was wary. He couldn’t be sure where Hannibal’s loyalties would lie in this mess. 

Hell, Will didn’t know where his _own_ loyalties were anymore. 

“Jack is less than convinced,” Will said, eyes trained on the media circus ahead of them. “He thinks my judgement is clouded, that I’m inventing killers to prevent myself from seeing the one right in front of me.”

“And what do you think?”

Will slumped with a groan, scrubbing at his eyes before replacing his glasses.

“I don’t know what to think.”

Hannibal’s hand came up to stroke at Will’s neck, the first time the two men had touched since waking that morning and Will closed his eyes against a stream of recollections that flooded his mind. 

_A bare arm, heavy with sleep, encircled his waist and before Will was altogether conscious, he had had a keen sense of that arm: it’s weight and it’s owner. As he awoke other things had entered his awareness; the tacky press of unwashed skin against his own, the scent of sex freely given, the heat of a body that Will knew intimately and trusted. It was unbearably sweet, to wake up to that, and Will had spent long minutes awake but with his eyes closed, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the moment to be sullied somehow._

_Instead, he found himself pulled nearer as Hannibal awoke. When Will reluctantly opened his eyes finally, it was to see directly into Hannibal’s dark and sharply-shockingly- alert gaze._

_“I’ll make breakfast,” Hannibal had said, starting to roll away, but Will caught at his hip and wordlessly rolled the other man on top of him._

_He was considered intently._

_“Perhaps breakfast can wait.”_

Will blinked himself back to the present, turning away from the touch that was both familiar and new. Whatever was finally happening between them felt too young-too delicate- to withstand the capricious gusts and blows that had come to characterize Will’s existence. 

Hannibal withdrew, face turning preternaturally still. “Let us go find Abigail.”

In her room, Abigail was pacing what little floor there was: two steps one direction and two steps the other.

“I didn’t do it. Will, you have to believe me,” Abigail blurted out as soon as Will entered the room and whatever disbelief Will had been suspending dissolved. He crossed his arms across his chest.

“And when were you planning on telling me you could see?” Despite himself, his voice was a low, husky betrayal.

Abigail took a step back, away from the danger she could sense in Will’s voice and as large a part of his heart broke to see it, just as large a part couldn’t help but think _good._

_She should be afraid._

The voice in his head was ruthless, unforgiving.

“I, I wanted it to be a surprise,” she stuttered, tears glinting in her reddening eyes.

“Well,” Will said, stepping into the room, words darkly mocking: “Surprise.”

“Jack suspects you for this young woman’s killing,” Hannibal said, the facts cool and level in his aristocratic mouth. 

_”I didn’t do it.”_ Abigail said again.

_Once more, with_ feeling.

“They say you’ve been leaving the center. Where do you go?”

“I don’t know,” Abigail mumbled, so much like a sullen teenager.

“Is there anyone that can act as an alibi? Someone that has seen where you wander, that can vouch for you innocence?”

Will stared at her hands, twisting the scarf at her neck in agitation, and Will was feeling morbid enough to notice it’s likeness to a noose. Unconsciously tightening the knot around her vulnerable throat over and over again.  
“No. I don’t know. I didn’t kill anyone.”

“We believe you,” Hannibal said gently and Abigail cast a desperate look at Will to see if Hannibal’s word were true. 

Despite all that had happened- perhaps because of it?- she still looked to Will for instructions, for reassurance. 

She had already been betrayed by one father, could he be so cruel as to refuse her another in her time of need? 

His ire evaporated. The anger that had animated Will this long left him suddenly and he practically slumped with exhaustion as he nodded his agreement.

Relieved tears flowed down Abigail’s cheeks as she stepped forward, falling into the embrace Will didn’t even realize he was offering. His lips found the crown of her head and he knew he would do anything to protect her. Even if she had killed that girl, he would just have to find a way to keep her safe. 

It was a promise he had made her in a kitchen a thousand miles away and consecrated in the blood that had spouted in great gouts from her sliced neck. 

Hannibal touched Will’s shoulder, testing, and when Will didn’t turn away, the other man stepped in close. He held the two of them between his steady and strong arms, a safety cable ready to take the burden should Will snap.

Will wonder if Hannibal had any idea of what he was in for with his offer.

Flashes of light in quick succession prefaced the mechanical whir of a camera. 

“That’s a great one, guys,” said a voice that made the blood in Will’s body burn to hear. 

Freddie Lounds stood, camera as ready as her self-satisfied smirk.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Will snarled, turning Abigail until she was safe behind him. 

Instead of an answer, Lounds took another photo. 

“Get out of here.”

Hannibal stepped in front of the tableau of Will and Abigail, hand outstretched and placating.

“Ms. Lounds, please.”

“Sorry, Hannibal,” Lounds said, though she doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. “You know I have to go after the story, and right now I’m thinking we link Abigail to her father, pull in Will’s murder of Hobbs, maybe dredge up that unfortunate business at The Helmsley with that man going out the window. We could even pull in that patient you lost all those years ago.” 

She waves the camera, triumph looks like blood thirst in her eyes and flushes her cheeks. 

“These photos, banner headline; something catchy. Something that’ll really hook the readers. ‘Murder Family,’ I’m thinking, or something like that. And I’ll bet I get a byline in every paper from here to China.” 

“If you dare-” Will started, stepping forward, but Hannibal grabbed his shoulder in a grip that was bruising, impossible to shake. 

Lounds just took another photo.

“Please, go on, Will. What were you saying? I’m sure my readers would _love_ to hear what you’d do to me ‘if I dare.’”

“I’ll tell them about your _proclivities_. I’ll tell them all about what you do, what you get up to in your free time.”

Lounds looked pitying, like Will’s threats made her genuinely sad. 

“And then I’ll only tell them what it is _you_ do. Who’s are they going to believe? Mine or-” 

Lounds stopped abruptly, looking at Abigail where she stood behind her guardians. “She still doesn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Then let’s all stay civilized and keep it that way,” Lounds said as Abigail demanded again: “ _Know what?_ ”

“I have to go. I’ve got an exclusive interview with the victim’s brother. He’s _very_ distraught, as I’m sure you can imagine. He’ll make a nice sidebar.”

“Ms. Lounds,” Hannibal called, and Lounds turned from the doorway. “I don’t think I have to tell you that your future appointments will be cancelled.”

“It’s unfortunate, but I expected no less.” 

Red curls bobbed merrily as she flounced out the door.

Abigail was startlingly pale when Will finally looked at her again. 

"What are we going to do?" 

"I don't know," Will admitted. "But we'll figure something out."


	20. Chapter 20

Abigail couldn’t stay at the Center. That much was clear. Between the reporters lurking up and down the block and the reporters that would no doubt find whoever it was Lounds had paid off and do the same, the Center was no longer the safe haven it once had been.

“But what about my therapy?” Abigail asked, pausing as she stuffed her meager wardrobe into a tall, brown grocery bag.

“I’ll drive you in for therapy,” Will said, voice firm. “Don’t worry about that. You and I will get a hotel room together, live out of there until we figure out what to do next.”

“Why can’t I stay at Hannibal’s place?”

Will looked to where Hannibal was carefully stacking the books he had loaned Abigail, slipping them into cheap plastic bags with cheerful ‘Thank You’s written across their faces. Every highbrow fiber in his being was probably cringing at treating his collection of leather-bound first editions like this, but Will couldn’t tell by the mild expression on the other man’s face.

“You could,” Hannibal offered without looking up from his task.

“She _can’t_ ,” Will said, a little annoyed at being forced to play bad cop to Hannibal’s good cop. “We can go to the Holiday Inn, see if they have any rooms-”

Hannibal grimaced with distaste at the mention of the budget hotel.

“Let me make arrangements for you.”

“I can’t afford-”

“I can,” Hannibal said simply. “Let me take care of this for you. For Abigail.”

Abigail was watching them closely, hopefully. 

“Fine,” Will said between gritted teeth and Abigail immediately broke into the first smile he had seen on her that morning. “But no room service.”

Abigail eagerly agreed, and Will took the bag of clothes she had packed to Hannibal’s car. As he left the room he could just make out Hannibal’s voice murmuring as he told Abigail: “You can order room service if you would like to.”

He should have minded more, having his authority undermined, but he was too grateful to hear her delighted hiccup of laughter to care. It stayed with him, warmed him, as he pushed his way through the throng of microphones and yells for Will to comment.

The hotel was about what Will would have expected from Hannibal: darkly understated and quietly extravagant.

If their trio seemed out of place, weighted down by their makeshift luggage of grocery bags, the employees were all too well-compensated to look askance. 

Of course the room for two had, under Hannibal’s influence, been coaxed into a suite that took up half of the twelfth floor. Complimentary champagne chilled beside four flutes and Abigail tried to be casual as she inspected the rooms, tried not to let her face betray her thoughts, but she was still a teenager and her wandering, not-so-subtle gaze kept coming back to the chilling bottle. 

Hannibal gracefully popped the cork and poured himself a glass of sparkling wine as Will dropped a bag of books onto the bed in one of the rooms. When he came back out to the main sitting room it was to see Hannibal and Abigail clinking flutes in a toast. 

“Please, Will. Join us.”

Will sighed and shook his head, but still obediently took the glass he was offered. At least Abigail’s flute was significantly lower than the generous amount Will was poured. 

He really didn’t need to add underage drinking to his list of transgressions. 

“What do you think?” Hannibal asked mildly, and Will wasn’t sure if he meant the room, the champagne, or the situation that had led them all here. With Hannibal, he had learned, conversation was a blank canvas onto which just about anything could be projected. 

“It’s awesome,” Abigail interjected happily. “This room is amazing! I’ve never been in any place like this in my life. I swear it’s bigger than my entire _house_ back in Minnesota.”

“And with quite a few more amenities than your rehabilitation center, I would imagine,” smiled Hannibal as he took a connoisseur’s taste from his glass.

“I’ve still got to pick up some clothes,” Will said, drinking without really tasting. His mind was too busy making plans and back-up plans. “Do you think you’ll be okay here by yourself while I run and do that?”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll just take a bath or something, Lay around and be useless.”

Will nodded, downing what was left in his glass with one last mouthful.

“Hannibal? Do you mind acting as chauffeur one last time?”

“Not at all.”  
The trip to the Helmsley was uneventful, silent, but coming back they hit rush hour traffic. Which in and of itself was pretty surreal. Will had forgotten what it was like, to live in a world that work could be distilled into the hours of nine-to-five, that traveling was a thing you did at the same time as the rest of the human herd. 

The car in front of theirs was a white Impala, it’s sleek lines marred by the tacky Honor Roll stickers that lined the back windows. 

“Thank you,” Will finally said. There were only so many times he could count and recount those Honor Roll stickers. “For the hotel room, for helping Abigail. You didn’t have to do it, but I do appreciate that you did.”

Hannibal inclined his head, didn’t say anything, and suddenly the silence wasn’t pleasantly enveloping so much as quietly suffocating.

“I feel like I’m continuously thanking you,” Will said finally and it sounded almost like an accusation. “You keep doing these things- these wonderful, unasked for things- and I- I don’t- I know I can’t repay you for any of it and-”

Will found himself being pulled by his neck across the space between them and into a kiss. Hannibal’s mouth was as soft as it had been that morning, his tongue as clever, and despite the awkward pull of his seat belt and the painful way the gearshift dug into Will’s stomach, he took what was offered greedily, hungrily. 

Gratefully. 

Long, luxurious minutes passed where all that filled Will’s world was the taste and smell and feel of the other man. 

The honking of the car behind Hannibal’s was a shock, and Will abruptly jerked away. Hannibal shook his head, seemingly needing a moment to compose himself, before easing the car forward. 

“You are not a burden,” Hannibal said, his voice low and certain. “Anything I offer, I offer it freely.” 

And what could Will do with that? There was no reason, no rational reason, that this man- so cultured and composed in every way Will wasn’t- would find him worth pursuing and yet he did. There was no reason a man with a rigorously regulated life like Hannibal’s would want to shoulder the burden of chaos that followed Will like a hound to a fox, and yet here they were. 

“I just have one thing to ask of you.”

Will nodded tightly.

“Whatever happens; with Jack Crawford, with Abigail. Whatever it is you will eventually feel you have to do to. Don’t disappear into the night. Let me help you. You are not alone, Will, not anymore.”

It was a good thing that traffic had stopped again, because this time it was Will that was compelled to pull Hannibal across the car for a kiss. He shut his eyes so hard there was a wash of white behind his eyelids and he tried to pour the complicated tangle of feeling into a kiss, tried to telegraph with his lips and teeth what his own mind couldn’t even begin to puzzle together. 

Hannibal gave a small grunt, encouragement and appreciation in the short, guttural sound, and Will was suddenly ravenous to hear more. His cock was stirring, straining, but he ignored it in favor of sliding a hand down to check if Hannibal was as affected as he. Will squeezed his palm around the length he found, urging it to hardness. 

“Will,” Hannibal groaned when Will eased the zip of his trousers down, but Will shushed him. 

“Let me. Please.”

Hannibal leaned back in his seat and he was just far enough away from the steering wheel that Will could maneuver, taking the length of cock into his mouth. He relaxed his throat, taking Hannibal in to the base. Prostitution had been good for something, it seemed, because Hannibal was panting wildly by the time his lips touched the brush of fine hair at the base of his cock. Hand circled his head, urging him on.

Not that Will needed the encouragement. 

The car windows were tinted, so maybe they didn’t scandalize the white collar commuters and Honor Roll parents that surrounded Hannibal’s car, but even if they did, Will couldn’t find it in himself to feel shame for this. 

Instead he concentrated on using his mouth to coax as many sounds as he could out of the man he was starting to suspect he might actually love. 

***

It was all too good to last, of course. 

If Will had been anyone else, maybe it would have. He might have found an easy balance between driving Abigail to her therapy during the day and leaving her behind to work alongside Hannibal at night. If he were anyone else, maybe the infrequent, stolen moments with Hannibal would have blossomed into larger swathes of time spent living and loving together. 

But happy endings simply weren’t the sort of things that happened to Will Graham. 

Which was why it wasn’t _surprise_ he felt when, one night, he walked in to the suite he shared with Abigail to find the cool and bloody form of a young man on their sitting room floor. His heart rate didn’t change, didn’t race, as he automatically bent to check the man’s carotid artery for a pulse, though the wide, glassy stare of death already told Will everything he needed to know.

“Abigail?” he called out and a sob across the room answered. 

In the dark he hadn’t seen her there, sitting on the floor with her back pressed against the wall. She was huddled as small as she could make herself, darkly stained hands pressed against her face, covering her eyes, and Will could empathize only too well. He knew intimately the futility of trying to scrub away the picture that death had personally engraved on your mind’s eye. 

He eased himself next to her, mindful of the splatters of blood that trailed to where she sat. She keened, the sound of a wounded animal, as she rocked. There was anguish in every line of her body.

“What happened?”

“He followed me here. He was at the Center and I don’t know how he- but he did, he followed me here. I swear to God I never meant to-” she choked, gasped through her tears. “It was an accident.”

“Who is he?”

“He said I killed his sister, but I didn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t.” 

Abigail finally looked up, her face smudged with blood and tears, her eyes rimmed with red that stood out against the deathly pallor of her skin. “I’m not like my father.”

“I know you’re not,” Will answered, simply.

As he watched numbly, blood underneath the body soaked into the hotel’s slate grey carpeting.

Abigail listed to the side, mindlessly seeking comfort from Will like a sunflower drawn toward the familiar sun. When he didn’t rebuff her, she crumbled against his side. Her sobbing became ragged, the beginnings of hyperventilation, and he brought his arms up to hold her through the worst of it.

When her breathing became easy again, Will stroked her back soothingly.

“We need to call Hannibal,” he told her eventually and she responded with an exhausted nod against his chest.


	21. Chapter 21

Hannibal let himself into the room with a key Will hadn’t even realized he had. It was just as well; Abigail hadn’t seemed inclined to move from her spot against the wall and Will was just as keen to stay there.

To get up meant action, meant that she would be looking to him for what was to be done next and, truth was, Will didn’t have a fucking clue what to do next. When the cops checked his call record, when they saw he called Hannibal before any law enforcement, he knew he would be labeled an accomplice. It didn’t matter, though. Calling Hannibal just felt _right_.

From his vantage point of the floor he could see the trim, strong form through what little light came in by way of the window’s drawn curtains. Something low in his belly twisted primally to see the other man, despite the scene of violence between them. As he watched, Hannibal carefully stepped around the still form, was mindful of the trail of blood.

“How is she?” Hannibal asked, crouching near enough to smell the lingering traces of the shower Will had left him to. 

Abigail didn’t raise her face from Will’s chest as she shrugged.

“It was self defense,” Will said, voice even. He was glad he sounded so sure, even if he wasn’t. 

Not really.

“It never crossed my mind to believe otherwise.”

Will searched Hannibal’s glacial face, but if he was lying, he was far more accomplished at it than Will could discern. 

“There’s probably security camera footage, in the lobby and elevator if not the hallways.”

“Footage can be bought,” Hannibal answered easily. If the illegality of what Will was proposing bothered him he certainly didn’t show it. “The carpet is problematic.”

_Problematic._ Well, that was a nice euphemism. 

“I know some tricks to getting it out.”

“As do I,” Hannibal said. That’s right, he had been a surgeon, once upon a time. “Disposing of the body, on the other hand-”

“I’ll deal with it.” Will said firmly. If anyone was going to get caught with a corpse in their trunk, it was going to be him. “I know some places to dump the body. If you can deal with the blood and the cameras, I’ll get the rest.”

Hannibal gave a small, serious nod and reached out, smoothing a comforting hand down Abigail’s hair. 

“We will take care of this,” Hannibal said, voice soft, almost tender.

“Thank you,” she said through the fabric of Will’s shirt.

“Where’s the knife, Abigail?” 

Abigail pointed to a spot across the room where she had dropped it and Hannibal stood, made his way to where the smudged knife lay. Producing a handkerchief from his coat, Hannibal was careful as he lifted the murder weapon and Will wondered idly if it was to keep the blood from touching his fingers or from leaving his own fingerprints behind. 

Will squinted as Hannibal held it up to the light and Will recognized the brand of hunting knife. 

It was the same brand they had found in the hunting lodge that Garrett Jacob Hobbs kept. Last Will had heard, those were still in evidence lock-up, along with the rest of Hobbs’ things.

“I don’t know where it came from. When I unpacked it was in with one of my bags of clothes. I remember it. It was my dad’s knife but I don’t- if I brought it from Duluth I don’t remember doing it.” 

“One mystery at a time,” Hannibal said firmly. “Is there anyone that would notice the young man as missing?”

“I don’t know,” Abigail answered, finally unfolding herself. Will’s arms had pins and needles for having stayed in that position for so long and he stretched it gingerly. “His sister- the girl they think I killed- I think I read on Tattlecrime she was his only family, the only one survived by her. Ms. Lounds, maybe? That’s who told him about the center and my therapy. That’s what he told me. That’s where he followed me here from.”

“Then we were fortunate, indeed. Come,” Hannibal said, extending the hand that wasn’t holding the murder weapon and Abigail automatically took it, though as she was pulled up she very deliberately kept her gaze away from the knife. “Why don’t you go and clean yourself up. Will and I will take care of the rest.”

Hollowly, Abigail nodded and trudged toward her room. Hannibal gingerly shut the door behind her, the sound of the closing door soft as he separated her from her atrocity. It was a small mercy that Will wouldn’t have considered and he spared a moment to be glad that Hannibal- so used to thinking of the needs of others- had. 

“Do you think I ought to have called Jack?” Will asked at last, voice low even though he could faintly hear the sound of running water from behind the closed door.

“I think you did the right thing, calling me. Jack Crawford would only be too eager to link this young man’s death to the murder of his sister. We may be the only two in the world that believe that Abigail was not responsible for that unfortunate girl’s death.”

Will turned to hide the guilt that brushed at his conscience at Hannibal’s words. He’d like to stand with Hannibal against the world, but he had too many doubts.

Still, he would rather take the fall for Cassie Boyle and her brother’s deaths himself than throw Abigail to the rabid jaws of the FBI. Not when she was still so fragile, still fighting to heal.

“I’ll go pull the rental car around to the back of the building. Are you okay here?”

Hannibal’s eyes were trained on his work as he carefully wrapped the knife in his hands with his handkerchief. The thin, white fabric began to darken as the thick droplets of blood soaked though.

“I’ve seen worse things in my life. I will be fine.”

***  
Of course Jack Crawford tracked them down to ask about the reported disappearance of Nicholas Boyle. By then the evidence had long been cleaned, buried, or destroyed. 

“Haven’t you bothered Abigail enough, Jack?” Will asked finally when three hours of interrogating Abigail in their hotel suite had yielded nothing. He was strangely proud of her wide-eyed lies. “She’s trying to rebuild her life, and it’s becoming harder and harder to do that when there’s a new accusation against her every other day.”

“Nobody’s been accused of anything,” Jack said, hands spread, deep voice resonating. “We are just having a friendly conversation here. Abigail was the last person to see Nicholas Boyle alive. A nurse saw them having a heated conversation ten days ago and I’m just doing my job by following up on that.”

“Maybe Nicholas Boyle is the one that killed Cassie Boyle and the reason he’s ‘disappeared’ is he’s hiding from you.”

Jack gave Will a long, penetrating stare. “Is that your official interpretation of the evidence?” 

“That’s as much as I care to interpret.” Will stood and instinctively Abigail did too. “There are seven billion people on this planet. Over 600,000 in Baltimore, alone. Maybe you’ll consider that next time someone dies or goes missing and leave us alone.”

Will walked Jack to the hotel room’s door, leading him across the stretch of carpet where Nicholas Boyle had taken his last breath. Abigail seemed to be holding hers, but if Jack suspected anything it wasn’t readily apparent. 

“I’ll be in touch,” Jack said, sliding his brimmed hat over the crown of his head.

Abigail opened her mouth to speak, but Will held his palm out, stopped her. They   
stood in silence for several excruciatingly long minutes until Will was sure Jack was truly gone.

Finally, Will put his hand down, but by then neither of them had anything to say.

***  
If there was one client with a standing appointment that Will looked forward to the least, it would have to be Mason Verger. Entitled and unpredictable, it was an exercise in mental gymnastics to try to stay apace of his capricious whims.

“I used to fuck my sister, you know,” he said dreamily as Will rolled a condom down the other man’s ready cock. 

Will cut a glance to Hannibal, but he had his oh-so-careful, solicitous mask firmly in place. Whatever he was thinking, it was locked away and totally inaccessible to Will.

“Oh?” He finally settled on. Nice and neutral as he jacked the sheathed cock.

“Mmmmmm. Used to cut her, too. She never would scream, just cry these big, fat old crocodile tears. It was hilarious.”

“That sounds. Entertaining.”

“Bend over,” Verger said in an almost bored voice, one that was used to giving commands and getting what he wanted.

Will, of course, obeyed. He could feel Verger’s cock working its way inside of him and he pushed backwards, bearing into the intrusion.

“I wonder what you would do if I stuck you with a knife,” Verger said idly, seemingly unaffected the slow slide _in_. 

Two could play that game.

Will dropped all pretenses of enjoying the fucking Verger was giving him, instead matching Verger’s even tone.

“I wouldn’t cry.”

“No, but I bet you would scream.” He held on to Will’s hips, and Will sank down from his hands to his elbows as he settled in to being taken from behind. “Squeal like a little piggy.”

“Screaming is a natural reaction to extreme stimulus,” Hannibal said as he eased himself onto the bed next to them. “Crying, screaming, even cursing as a form of hypoalgesia has been shown to induce the body’s natural fight-or-flight response, which then nullifies the link between pain and the perception of pain.”

“Fascinating,” Verger breathed, and Will couldn’t help the small grunt as his prostate was hit by a particularly well-positioned stroke. “Oh, yes. I like that, make that sound again.”

Will rolled his eyes at Hannibal and did, grunting and gasping, making a show of it as Verger sped up, pumping with more vigor. It wasn’t long before Verger was coming- noisily and showily. 

It never took long for Mason Verger to come; if he had one saving grace, then that would be it. 

“I hope his talk didn’t bother you,” Hannibal said as he stepped into the shower alongside Will after showing Verger the door. “Stabbing and such, so soon after Abigail’s terrible ordeal.”

Will snorted a laugh, handing Hannibal a washcloth still frothy with suds. “Mason Verger is an entitled little prick. While he might have delusions of grandeur about being some terrifying sadist, at his core he’s nothing but an insignificant nuisance. Like a mosquito.”

Hannibal smirked as he dragged the washcloth across his chest. “Mosquitos deserve to be swatted.”

“And I have no doubt someone will swat him, one of these days,” Will eased back into the warm spray, closed his eyes and savored as soap sluiced down his body and into the drain. “My money’s on the sister.”

“Only time will tell,” Hannibal hummed as he stepped in close to Will, crowding. Will opened his eyes, squinting through the falling water.

“Did he bother _you_? You know morbid talk is how he gets off. What was it last week? Those damn pigs he’d read about in Italy that had been trained to eat a man alive.”

“I remember.”

“Too bad he’s so loaded. We can always hope for a salmonella outbreak, E coli, something to ruin the meat industry and the Verger fortune-”

Will’s ramblings were stoppered as Hannibal tilted his head down and caught Will’s lips in a kiss. Reaching up, Will instinctively wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck and pulled the other man closer until their bare chests were flush against one another. 

When Hannibal finally pulled away, Will tried to follow his mouth but he was held in place.

“You have to go soon. Abigail-”

“Abigail will be fine,” Will said, as his smile filled with gallows humor. “We already know she can fend for herself.”

He tried to reel Hannibal back in, but Hannibal was having none of it.

“Does Jack Crawford suspect anything?”

Will sighed. “Jack Crawford always suspects _something_ , but fortunate for us there’s nothing for him to _find_.”

“You are certain?”

“I am,” Will said and let Hannibal hear the steady conviction in his voice. “What’s the matter? Guilty conscience?”

“No,” Hannibal said firmly. “I worry.”

“About Jack?”

“About you. I fear the day will come that Jack’s suspicions will have substantive proof behind them. When you will have no choice but to disappear into hiding.”

“If we do,” Will said slowly, as cautious as he would approach a wounded animal. “If the day comes that Abigail and I have no choice, are forced to run...”

The enormity of what he was about to ask- the presumption inherent in it-made his chest ache and Will realized that he was bracing for rejection. 

“Come with us.”

The splatter of the shower’s spray against the floor times was loud, louder than it had any right to be. Hannibal held Will’s neck, searching his eyes for something, and that old need to shy away from scrutiny flared, made the dark-eyed regard unbearable, but Will stood still and let himself be read.

Finally, Hannibal seemed satisfied with whatever he had found in Will’s eyes.

“Yes.”


	22. Chapter 22

As the days passed, the throng of reporters that loitered at the rehabilitation center’s gates thinned. No matter how much “evidence” Freddie Lounds unearthed for that libel-slinging site of hers, none of it was substantiated enough for the modern 24-hour news cycle to really sink its teeth into. Not when there was a massive spinach recall, a possible meningitis outbreak, and two mass shootings to cover instead.

So, when the day came that only the most unctuous of the tabloids still lingered, Will could breathe a little easier.

“Abigail: any comment on that ritual killing up in Philly? Take any road trips recently?” asked Chuck Casey from the Mirror, but even he sounded bored. The accusations lacked the heat and vigor they once had had weeks ago.

“Isn’t there anything else you can get assigned?” Will countered, finally breaking his silence.

Casey sighed tiredly, and Will felt the smallest stirring of empathy for the clearly exhausted and startlingly young reporter. 

“I’m pretty low on the totem pole,” he admitted confidingly. “I just go where they tell me to.”

“Ah,” Will said.

“But anything you can give me- something to take back to my editors that could help me break into the business-”

“I don’t think so,” Will said gently. “But thanks for the offer.”

Abigail trailed behind Will to the car silently. 

“Did you read about that Philly murder?” Abigail asked as she slotted her seatbelt into place. 

“I try to avoid that sort of thing,” Will responded, turning the key over to the sound of the ignition sputtering to life. “I got my share of morbidity when I was a cop, quite frankly.”

“Tattlecrime had photos.”

“I’m sure they did,” Will said, derision thick in his voice.

Sensationalism sells, even at the expense of the dignity of the dead.

“I just don’t get it. The whole displaying a victim thing.”

“Some killers like the attention they get. They like to show off their work.”  
“Showing off is what got my dad caught,” Abigail said, calm fact in her voice. Talking about her father used to bother her; now it seemed she had started the process of making her peace. “If he hadn’t returned that girl to her bedroom, you never would have traced everything back to him.”

Will was quiet, tried to figure out how to respond. On the one hand, he didn’t want to upset Abigail but on the other, she was old enough not to have her honest curiosity patronized. As easy as it would be to tell her not to think about that sort of thing, she had every right to be respected as the adult she legally almost was, to have her questions answered. 

“Your father- what he did when he tucked Elise Nichols back into bed that night- it wasn’t to display her. He wasn’t as crass at that. He respected the girls he killed. Loved them. When he couldn’t honor her the way he honored the other girls, he returned her as the next best thing.”

“Loved them?”

“In his own twisted way; yes.”

Abigail was silent, processing. “I guess that takes some of the sting out of him killing girls that looked so much like me. I figured he killed those girls as a practice, that he planned one day on killing me the same way he killed them.”

“Not necessarily. But it doesn’t matter now. You’re alive, he’s not. No matter what he intended to do to you, you can take comfort in that, at least.”

“The Chesapeake Ripper displays the people he kills. I was reading up on him, after they said they thought he was the one to kill that man in Philly.”

“The Chesapeake Ripper is an extremely intelligent psychopath,” Will said easing in to traffic. “If he’s displayed a kill, you can be sure there will be nothing leading back to him. He has a better chance of getting caught by pure coincidence or chance rather than from any sloppiness on his part.”

“Does he love his victims, do you think?”

“No,” Will answered unequivocally. “I tried profiling him for Jack once. Before I was pulled in to the case with your father.”

_Before he Garrett Jacobs Hobbs broke Will in ways he was only now starting to recover from._

“And what did you find out?”

“He will be extremely hard to catch.”

“Do you think he will be caught? Eventually?”

Will sighed. “I honestly can’t say. All I know is his timing is impeccable. This murder draws those reporters away from us. Hopefully they’ll stay distracted and leave us alone from here on out.” 

Abigail nodded, picking at a seam of the rental car’s passenger seat pensively.

“Will?” she asked, voice soft now. “Nicholas Boyle. I just. What- what did you do with-”

“Don’t,” Will cut in. “Please, don’t ask me that. You don’t want to know. It’s better for you if you don’t know.”

Walking the woods of Wolf Trap that night had been a painful reminder of the life he used to lead. His house, his dogs, the way the trees sounded during a rain storm. He was careful not to follow the trails he knew so well back to his little house, didn’t want to see what changes the months and new owners had brought with them. 

There was never any use to it; poking at the wounds of your past. If Will Graham had learned nothing else during his time on earth, it was that.

“Can we stop at Chipotle for dinner?”

“Tired of room service already?” Will teased. “Okay, but don’t tell Hannibal.”

“No way,” Abigail cheerfully agreed as they pulled into the strip mall’s parking lot. “If he asks we had filet mignon or oysters or something.”

***

Will was deciding on a tie for the evening when his cell phone rang. 

“Hannibal,” Will said, recognizing the number. 

“They know.”

His mind was clear, clearer than it had been for a long time. There was no fear to dull his thoughts, just a lucidity that was as neat and precise as the blade of a knife. 

“Are you coming?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll get Abigail ready. We’ll see you soon.”

There was no response, but Will didn’t expect one. 

Abigail was sitting cross-legged on her bed in a shirt and her pajama pants, an iPad gifted to her by Hannibal in her lap. 

“Leaving for the night already?” Abigail asked when Will came in, eyes still on the screen. But when he went into her closet and pulled out the packed bag that was waiting in the dark, he had her full attention.

“You mean-” 

“Be ready in five.”

They took three cabs and a bus to get to the airport, hailing each new cab a safe distance from where the last dropped them off. Luckily they only had one bag a-piece, which made traveling the circuitous route somewhat more manageable. Still, they hardly spoke to one another, and every time Will glanced over at her Abigail was staring out the window, worriedly tugging at the scarf around her neck. 

Will paid the cab driver in cash as Abigail stepped out to the curb of the bustling airport. The chaos of travelers coming and going, of cars honking and weepy hugs good bye, seemed to stop Abigail short and Will didn’t blame her. Their’s was a silent Armageddon, the structure of their world crumbling around them made no sound, no disruption to the lives of those around them. She hugged her bag tight to her chest and stared dumbly at it all. 

Will watched her, her tight lips and rapidly blinking eyes. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, but her voice cracked on the affirmation.

Holding out his hand, Abigail greedily grabbed on to it with one of her own, clinging tight. Will gave her a sympathetic squeeze before leading her in to claim the tickets waiting for Stephen McKinley and his daughter, Kristi, from the cheerful woman at the ticket counter.

Their passports were the best fakes that money could buy. Hannibal had insisted on it, presenting them to Will while he still had dirt from Nicholas Boyle’s burial place beneath his fingernails. At the time Will had been surprised at how quickly he had obtained the fake documents, but now Will was only grateful that they didn’t so much as make the TSA agent blink as he scribbled on their ticket and waved them through to the security line. 

If Hannibal was already there, Will didn’t see him through the tangling mass waiting to walk through the metal detector. 

Reading his thoughts, Abigail asked, “Where is he?”

“We agreed to meet on the plane.”

“But what if he doesn’t make it?”

“He’ll make it,” Will said with a confidence he didn’t quite feel.


	23. Chapter 23

“Is this seat taken?” asked a voice over his shoulder.

“You made it!” Abigail exclaimed, before clasping a hand over her mouth, aware of the other passengers in the first class cabin now looking at their trio in interest.

“Of course I made it,” Hannibal said with a smile as he removed his coat and folded it neatly, placing it in his lap as he sat. 

Will waited until Hannibal man was settled into his assigned seat, but he couldn’t wait any longer than that before he pulled Hannibal to him, holding him in a tight embrace as his heart pounded. He shut his eyes as he held fast, releasing the fear and worry he hadn’t let himself feel until that moment into the vise grip he had on the other man.

“ _He’ll be here_ ,” he heard Abigail mocking from beside him. “You jerk, you were just as worried as I was.”

“Were you worried?” Hannibal asked in a deep, low rumble. Will released him in degrees until finally just their foreheads were touching. 

“Maybe,” Will said voice a whisper, eyes squeezed tight the better to still his mind from running through the wild possibilities that were only now being tossed around his mind like volleys from a bad juggler. 

Hannibal’s lips found Will’s forehead, pressing fiercely, reassuringly, before he pulled away.

For her part, Abigail was letting them have their moment, carefully studying the laminated safety packet, as if she would be tested on it later.

“How long is the flight to Italy?” Abigail asked when they began to finally untangle.

“Long,” Will said.

“ _Signore_?” A pretty waitress with a wide smile addressed Hannibal. “ _Champagne_?”

“ _Si, grazie._ ”

“ _Signore?_ ” Will was offered and he hesitated. It seemed in poor taste to accept a celebratory drink, especially when they weren’t out of the clear. Not yet. Jack could still come tearing down the runway, waving his badge to keep the plane grounded in a dramatic eleventh hour.

Abigail was watching him with interest, all pretext of reading the card in her lap gone. 

“Oh fine,” Will said, taking a flute and, after a moment’s indecision, taking a second and passing it to a delighted Abigail. 

“A toast,” Hannibal said, raising his glass and Abigail hastily brought the glass away from her lips and followed his example.

Wary, Will brought his flute to theirs. 

“To finally taking the family vacation we always said we would.” 

Will snorted at the saccharine quality to Hannibal’s tone. 

_Family vacation. Right._ Though he did have to admit the passengers that had been watching their little reunion with interest were starting to become bored and turning their attention elsewhere. 

As they clinked glasses, Will’s eye couldn’t help but land on a brownish smudge on Hannibal’s cuff. While Abigail contentedly sipped, Will took the opportunity to lean over and murmur into Hannibal’s ear.

“Is that blood?”

A self deprecating smile. “Balsamic vinegar. I was preparing dinner when I received the news.”

Hannibal rolled his cuff up, the stain disappearing as his strong forearms were revealed. Will, who had seen enough bloodstains to know the dark viscosity of drying blood intimately, didn’t say anything else.

As the plane headed down the runway, Hannibal offered his palm and with only the lightest hesitation, Will took the offered hand, entwining their fingers together for the long journey ahead of them. 

When they were informed that they had finally reached cruising altitude, Will finally let himself believe they had actually gotten away. 

***

“The market in Via San Teodoro is open today. I thought I would go and buy us some fresh produce for the week.”

“I’ll come with!” Abigail enthusiastically offered, putting down the sketch she had been working on. 

Hannibal was trying to teach her perspective and subtle shading this week, claiming it was a therapeutic alternative for improving her vision and fine motor skills. She wasn’t any good, her apples were too long and bananas usually too round, but she made up for it with her enthusiasm. 

Will was becoming concerned with her newfound obsession with pleasing Hannibal. Whenever he suggested an activity she attacked it with the sort of ravenous excitement usually reserved for puppies or businessmen in line for a promotion. It seemed a petty thing to be concerned with: following his suggestions she had walked the ancient ruins of the Colosseum, strolled the Galleria Borghese, sat in a box seat at the opera and sous chef-ed for Hannibal’s authentically Italian meals. When she wasn’t sketching, she was attacking her Rosetta Stone for Italian CDs with vehement zeal. Abigail was becoming a cultured young lady under Hannibal’s tutelage, but Will wondered if on some level she was afraid that losing his approval was analogous to losing everything they had. 

“Will?” Hannibal prompted and Will blinked.

“You two go ahead. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

It wasn’t even a lie. His nightmares were back and as vivid as he remembered them to be. Too many times he had woken to find the sheets soaked in sweat and Hannibal staring at him in the dark.

Will always tried to apologize but Hannibal would only reach out and draw Will nearer, soothing a hand down his back. 

“I’m sure I could find some sort of sleep aid while we are out,” Hannibal offered, fingers tenderly brushing the back of Will’s hand. 

_Like you found us somewhere to live?_

They had landed in Italy with no prospects, no plans. All they had was a handful of just-converted Euros and three bags between them. Hannibal had insisted Will take Abigail to a nice cafe for some gelato while he disappeared for close to two hours. By then Will, who hadn’t slept at all the entire thirteen hour plane ride had switched to some truly incredible espresso as Abigail put her head on the table and taken a nap. If the cafe owners minded, Will’s Italian was no where near as good to tell. Being an ignorant, gauche American was truly bliss, so he just continued to order more espresso while he waited for Hannibal’s return. 

When he finally did, it was with a set of house keys that opened the door to an ornately lavish home in a neighborhood that Will felt underdressed just walking through. If Abigail had been excited by the hotel room Hannibal had procured in Baltimore, it was nothing compared to her reaction to this marble-and-gold-accented palace.

“I had a client who insisted I look him up if ever I was in Rome.”

“Was that really wise? Won’t they be able to track us back from him?”

“He won’t say a word,” Hannibal had reassured Will at the time. 

Now Will only smiled his tired thanks and shook his head. “I should be fine. Nothing a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep can’t fix.”

When they were finally ready to leave, Will tilted his head up to receive the now-ritual kiss that Hannibal pressed to his lips. It was sweet, chaste and everything Will had craved from the other man for so long.

Yet, he felt strangely cold and unmoved. 

“Be careful,” he told Abigail as she fiddled with her sketch book, put the knife she used to sharpen her pencils in neat alignment with the rest of her drawing supplies. Just the same way Hannibal did with his art things.

“You worry too much,” Abigail chided lightly.

“Maybe,” Will said.

For being a group of wanted fugitives lying low in a foreign country, they led a remarkable public life. 

“Any requests for dinner?”

Will smiled affectionately at her, touched her hair. “Whatever you two want. I bow to your expertise.”

He waited a half an hour before he finally left himself. Long enough to be sure he was alone and wouldn’t be seen. Hailing a cab was no problem, and he directed the driver in broken half-Italian to take him to the Trevi Fountain, a place so packed with tourists and activity he was guaranteed to be utterly alone in the crowd. 

Finding a pay phone, in this decade of mobile phones, was another matter altogether, though eventually he found one. 

The paper in his pocket was small and crumpled, the number written on it scrawled during the last dregs of his cell phone’s charge. 

Across the ocean, the call nearly rang out before it was heard, answered by a voice that was less than impressed to be called by a blocked number.

“What?” Beverly said brusquely and Will swallowed, heart pounding. 

She had given him her cell number so long ago, a part of him had been half-hoping the number was old and no longer in use. 

“Hello?” she said when only silence answered her. “Look, I don’t have time to-”

“Hello Beverly.”

“Will?” his name was a disbelieving whisper hissed from four thousand miles away. “Christ, kid, where are you? The FBI-”

“Are they there now?”

“At the Helmsley? Probably, but I don’t live there anymore. No one lives there anymore, now that it’s a crime scene.”

“A crime scene?” He was so surprised he almost blurted out something along the lines of _But that’s not where Nicholas Boyle was killed_.

“Are you okay? There is an APB out for you and that Abigail girl, he hasn’t hurt you has he?”

_An APB?_

“Who?”

“ _Hannibal_ ,” she hissed, like she was worried he would be able to overhear her. “From what I hear he killed some FBI trainee and practically gift wrapped the cops a trail that led them all the way back to the Helmsley. du Maurier is _pissed_ , one reporter called her an accomplice and she smacked him across the face. It happened so fast she was halfway into her car before anyone realized he was even on the ground.” 

Will had to shut his eyes, it was so much information to process and the horde of tourists and passing motorists were damn near overwhelming. 

“I don’t- I can’t-”

“Is he there with you? Is that why you can’t say anything? It’s fine, just give me a location and I’ll call 911, get someone to come find you.”

“Hannibal killed someone?”

“Hannibal killed a _lot_ of someones. Oh my God, do you not even know?”

“I don’t-”

“Will, they say that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper.”

***

Will looked up as the front door opened. He had made it as far as the airy and spacious sitting room before, before sitting down heavily on the sofa’s brocaded surface. Hannibal walked in, his arms overloaded with canvas bags filled with colorful produce, and shut the door.

“Where’s Abigail?”

“I left my wallet at the market. She insisted on going back to look for it while I brought the groceries home.”

“How nice of her.”

“It was,” he said, something in the way he walked forward reminded Will of a thunderstorm rolling in on the horizon, inevitable, with danger crackling beneath the dense mass of clouds. “She truly has blossomed ever since we arrived. I have the feeling Abigail is on her way to becoming quite a remarkable young lady.”

“She always was remarkable,” Will muttered.

“Of course,” Hannibal agreed easily, setting his burden down, idly tapping Abigail’s drawing pad with a finger. “But look at how much more remarkable she has already become.”

“They really don’t emphasize enough the possibility for self-improvement on ‘America’s Most Wanted’.”

“She is making the most of her situation. Adapting, which is a commendable quality. We seem to have developed a bond her and I. Abigail would do anything I told her to do.”

“She adores you,” Will agreed warily.

“Would she kill for me, do you think?”

Will’s spine snapped to attention and he could see in Hannibal’s still face that he knew that Will knew. The hair on the back of his neck bristled, he was alert, every movement caught his eye, every breath felt deliberate.

“Abigail is not a killer.”

“No? The evidence would suggest otherwise. And it becomes so much easier after the first time, don’t you agree?”

Slowly, as if not to startle a feral animal, Will stood. When Hannibal took a step toward him, he automatically took a step backwards, maintaining the space between them. 

“Why?”

“Why? Why did I have you believe the authorities knew of Abigail’s crime?”

“Let’s start there.”

“Why don’t we play a little game. I will answer your question, if in return you answer mine. Quid pro quo. What did it feel like when you killed Abigail Hobbs’ father?”

“I’m not going to-” 

Hannibal moved forward again and Will stepped back, a dance of points in space.

“Here, let me start. To answer your question, I suppose I believed that if left to your own devices we would continue that little half life you insisted on into infinity. Camping out of a four star hotel room with Abigail, brief evening hours spent with me; it was no way to live. Now, be honest, what did it feel like to kill Abigail’s father?”

Will banished the question with the shake of his head. “So you _lied_ to us? You _killed_ an FBI agent?”

“An agent in training. Jack’s protege, really. You remember what it was like to be Jack’s protege don’t you?” The light words twisted sharply, Hannibal’s mocking tone as cutting as any knife. “Now you: what did you feel when you killed Abigail’s father?”

This was what madness felt like. Will thought he knew that all-consuming fear when your mind was no longer something you could trust in, when what you saw wasn’t necessarily something you could believe. But this was something worse, like his reoccurring nightmare where a creek became a river and swallowed him down to the muddy depths below, only this time there was no darkened room to wake up to, no sweat-drenched sheets twisted around his ankles. There was only Hannibal with his still face and his sharp cheekbones, studying him with the detached coolness of a shark.

“Righteous.” Will said, and he didn’t mean to answer, didn’t even recognize the voice that came out of him. “I felt righteous.”

“Killing Garrett Jacob Hobbs was the moral thing to do,” Hannibal agreed. “And out of it, you gained a daughter. What else would you gain, I wonder, if you indulged again?”

“Indulged? In killing someone? I would never-”

“No? You wouldn’t kill me, even in self defense? If Abigail were to walk in here right now and if I were to attack her; could you kill me then?”

“You’re a monster.”

“I’m your friend. And you are mine, I think, though that wouldn’t stop me from killing you if the circumstances were to force my hand.” Logical. Hannibal was so fucking logical. “You are more like me than you realize. Destruction and chaos follow you where you go. How long were you at the Helmsley before you pushed that man out the window?”

“He was attacking me.” Will fought to keep his eyes open, not to let the memories of that night, of that man _pressing close, the pant of his breath, the danger in his fists_ cloud his mind, not when Hannibal was pressing his victory with a step nearer. 

Belatedly, Will stumbled back. 

“You’re the Chesapeake Ripper,” he countered.

“Among other things.”

“How many have you killed?”

Hannibal’s head cocked to the side. “In grand total? Or for your sake?”

“I never asked you to kill for me.”

“Why do you think Mr Harlan never pressed any charges? What do you suppose drew the attention of the authorities away from Abigail after she murdered poor Nicholas Boyle?” 

It was like a corrupted video file: Will blinked and Hannibal was closer, Will blinked again and Hannibal was nearer still. 

“I like you Will.”

Hannibal was close enough to reach out.

“I believe we could have a wonderful life together.”

A blink and there was a hand on his neck, drawing him in.

“You, me, Abigail. Italy, for as long as we care to stay. Anywhere you want to go after that.”

Vibrations of words, puffs of air, against his lips.

“It is your decision. The step is yours to take,” a slide of lips against Will’s cheek and he was careful not to move, not to provoke. “But can you take it, I wonder?”

Quick as a snake, Hannibal’s hand moved, whipping towards Will’s belly. The glint of sunlight against the blade in Hannibal’s hand was bright, and Will recognized it as the little knife Abigail used to sharpen her art pencils. 

- _Will saw red, blood flowing dark and thick, his bowels glistening sickly between his fingers_ -

But when he shook his head clear, there was no blood, just the sliced ribbons of his shirt beneath the staunching press of his palms. 

“You didn’t-” Will started, but was interrupted by the press of Hannibal’s lips to his.

“You haven’t given me your decision yet.”

“I-”

The front door opened and Abigail’s cheerful voice called a greeting.

“I found your wallet, Hannibal, but it took forever! Should I get started on the roasted vegetables?”

“Don’t hurt her,” Will pleaded in a whisper. “Please.”

“What will you give me in return? Your companionship? Your love?”

“Yes,” whispered Will. “If that’s what it takes, then yes, damn you. Just don’t hurt her.”

Hannibal stepped back, blade disappearing into the folds of his clothes as quickly as it had appeared. 

“Don’t give me a reason to, and I won’t,” Hannibal murmured before turning to Abigail, his human mask in place. Will, who had seen what lay behind it, could only shiver. “That would be a great help, Abigail, thank you. The olive oil should be in the bag with the eggplant, I believe.”

“You got it,” she chirped. “Uh, Will? Are you okay? What happened to your shirt?”

Will closed his eyes, took a breath. It didn’t take much effort at all to force his expression into something unconcerned, to act as if nothing had changed. 

“Everything’s fine,” he said, looking steadily into Hannibal’s eyes. “The fabric’s more delicate than I realized, I guess. I’d better go change.”

She accepted his answer with a shrug mumbling- _”If it’s some sex thing I so don’t want to know_ \- and went to take the bags of groceries to the kitchen. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Hannibal stepped back, an appreciative finger traced the smooth lines of Will’s liar’s face. “We _are_ more alike than you realize.”

“This isn’t going to last. This life is tenuous. It’s unsustainable, you know that.”

“I do.”

“What’s to stop me from calling Jack the moment your guard is down.”

“I’m sure he will be very interested in learning about the murder you and Abigail were involved in. Provided the two of you live long enough for it to matter, of course.” 

Will nodded his understanding, and when Hannibal reached for him again, he went willingly. Their lips came together, but it was Will that deepened the kiss, Will that pressed into Hannibal’s mouth with tongue and teeth and desperation. Hannibal hummed his appreciation, savored the intimacy before breaking away.

“Abigail is waiting.”

“I’ll go change my shirt,” Will said, drawing away.

“Why don’t you change into the new Brioni shirt? The blue one?”

Will nodded agreeably enough. 

He could let Hannibal dress him. He could let Hannibal lead him around, just as he could let Hannibal kiss him and fuck him and play happy home with him. 

It had been a long time since Will had had the time to fish, but once upon a time, he had been a _good_ fisherman. He knew how to choose the right bait and he had the patience to sit quietly and wait.

Hannibal liked exquisite things; for some reason that included Will. Fine, then, he could use that. 

The time would come, Will knew, when his patience would pay off, when Hannibal would be well and truly hooked.

He just hoped when that time came he’d have the strength to do what needed to be done. 

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I can't believe that it's finally the end. Thank you so so much for all of you that stuck with this crazy story for so long and all your encouragement and enthusiasm. I know some of you will not be happy with the ending, but Hannibal and Will trapped in an eternal battle of wills is about what passes for a happy ending for this fandom, and after that season 2 finale, I just couldn't leave them bleeding out and dying. I'll leave that to Fuller ;-)

**Author's Note:**

>  _Hannibalkink prompt:_  
>     
>  _Will is the newest rent boy at the most prestigious brothel in Baltimore. Hannibal is the brothel's highly-sought, oh so sophisticated headliner who never mixes with the other whores but takes Will under his wing and teaches him how to get a customer eating out of the palm of his hand. When one of the customers tries to rough Will up, Hannibal protects him (with cannibalism). Will and Hannibal end up becoming the brothel's biggest draw together with clients fighting for a night with the two of them._
> 
> _Sex positive prostitution please, nobody's being forced to do anything they don't want, Will's just a little naive and unsure at first- and the customer who roughs him up is just an unpleasant part of doing business that shows where they need to beef up security._


End file.
